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THE    LAST    CRUSADE 
AND    OTHER    VERSE 


THE  LAST  CRUSADE 


By 

ANNE    HIGGINSON    SPICER 

(Author  of  "Songs  of  the  Skokie") 


NEW    YORK 

JAMES    T.    WHITE    &    CO. 

1918 


"The  Last  Crusade"  was  printed  first  in  the 
Chicago  Examiner,  "Four  Women  in  Black"  and 
"Easter,  1918"  in  the  Chicago  Tribune.  Many 
of  the  War-songs  and  sonnets  first  appeared  in 
the  Line  o'Type,  and   The  Chicago  Post. 

Grateful  acknowledgment  is  made  to  the  re- 
spective Publishers  for  permission  to  reprint 
these  verses. 


COPYRIGHTED    1918    BY 
JAMES  T.  WHITE    &    CO. 


TO     MY     TWO     DEAREST     AND     SEVEREST     CRITICS, 

MY     HUSBAND     AND     MY     MOTHER,    THIS     LITTLE 

BOOK    IS    LOVINGLY    DEDICATED. 


CONTENTS 

War  Songs  and  Sonnets " 

flanders   flowers    12 

the   last   crusade 15 

TO    SAMMIE     l8 

TO    LIBERTY     ^9 

"spurs"    ^ 20 

1918      21 

MARIANA   AT  THE    RED    CROSS   SHOP 22 

FOUR   WOMEN    IN    BLACK 23 

THE    HEART    OF    LINCOLN 25 

THE    PIANO    RECITAL    IN    WARTIME 26 

EASTER,     1918     29 

THE     AIRMAN      3 1 

YOUR    WOMEN    AT    HOME 32 

SERVICE     FLAGS     34 

TO    OUR    FOREIGN    BORN 35 

A     SOLDIER    SPEAKS 3^ 

THE   TROOPSHIP    37 

TO  THE    INVADERS 38 

NEW   year's,    1918 39 


CONTENTS— Continued 

to  those  who  weep 40 

joyce  kilmer 4i 

Monologues    43 

cristofano  speaks    45 

the  old   maestro  speaks 47 

a  man  speaks  of  roses 52 

interval 55 

sleepless  in  the   city 58 

lot's    WIFE     59 

AFTER    THE    ACCIDENT 62 

"a     BRITTLE     world" 64 

EPISODE     66 

a  rhymester  speaks 69 

Sonnets   71 

carpe  diem    73 

RAVINIA    74 

TO    E.    R.    G 75 

THE    SECOND    WIFE 76 

CANDLES      77 

napoleon's    DEATH-MASK     78 

WHAT   YOU    HAVE    WRIT 79 

SONNETINA — TO     M.    F.    C 80 


CONTE'STS— Continued 

i  built  me  pinciiceck  palaces 8l 

if  thoughts  are   nothing 83 

Ballads,  Songs  and  Catchls 83 

ballade  of  basil 85 

ballade  of  old  tales 87 

ET    EGO    IN    RIVERSIDE    VIXI 89 

VANISHED    YOUTH     9 1 

"bungaroo"'     93 

A    BALLADIST    BOASTETH 95 

ECHO     97 

THE    TWO    SONGS 99 

SONG      100 

IF    I    WERE    SPOILER    OF    THE    SKIES lOI 

AT     THE     LOOM I02 

SONG      103 

DEV\T)ROP     104 

SONG      104 

STRONGHOLD   IO5 

TO  EVELYN  106 

CHRISTMAS    IN    THE    SLUMS I07 

MY    SONGS     108 

MEMORIES     109 


CONTENTS— Continued 

THE    TIPTOE    DREAM ^ I  lO 

IMPORTANCE     I  lO 

I    AM    THY    LOVER,    LIFE Ill 

WESTPORT     CHANTY      112 

SONG    IN    THE    WEST II3 

THE    CITY     114 

I  DREAMT   I   SAW    MY   LAUGHING   LOVE 119 

A    MESSAGE     I20 

SISTERS 121 

GUDRUN    122 

HER    SONNET     123 

SONNET     124 

THE    POET     125 

COUNTING    SHEEP     126 


WAR    SONGS    AND    SONNETS 


FD/WDERS   FLOIVERS 

From  noav  on  there  are  "corners  in  foreign  fields  that  are 
forever"  America.  Should  not  the  golden-rod  bloom  there? 

Some   day   the   fields   of  Flanders   shall   bloom    in   peace 

again, 
Field  lilies  and  the  clever  spread,  inhere  once  ivas  crimsoti 

stain; 
And  a  neiv  cheerful  golden  spray  shine  through  the  sun 

and  rain. 
The  clover's  for  the  English  ivho  sleep  beneath  that  sod. 
The  lily's  for  the  noble  French  whose  spirits  rest  with  God, 
But  where   our  sacred  dead  shall  sleep   must   bloom   the 

golden-rod. 

For  every  flower  of  summer  those  meadows  shall  have 
room. 

And  yet  I  think  no  Flemish  hand  will  touch  the  Kaiser- 
bloom, 

Whose  growing  blue  must  evermore  whisper  of  grief 
and  doom. 

But   clover  for  the  English   shall  blossom  from  the  sod. 

And  glorious  lilies  for  the  French  whose  spirits  rest  with 
God— 

And  where  our  own  lads  lie  asleep,  the  prairie  golden- 
rod. 

12 


Once    more    the    Flemish    children    shall    laugh    through 

Flemish  lanes, 
And   gather    happy   garlands   through   fields    of    by-gone 

pains  ; 
And   as   they   run   and   cull   their   flozvers,   sing   in   their 

simple   strains, 
"These  clovers  are  for  English  ivho  fought  to  save  this 

sod. 
And  lilies  for  the  valiant  French — may   their  souls   rest 

in   God! 
And  for  the  brave  Americans  ive  pluck  this  golden-rod." 
December,   1917. 


13 


THE    LAST    CRUSADE 

A  BANNER  blows  where  Sharon's  rose  in  beauty 
once  did  bloom. 
The    cruel    Crescent    meets    its    doom  —  the    Cross 

triumphant  goes. 
Where    once    the    harp    and    tabor    rung    a    newer 

anthem  now  is  sung — 
"We're   going  to  Jerusalem   to  vanquish   Freedom's 
foes." 

"We're  going  to  Jerusalem,  Jerusalem.  Jerusalem; 
We're    going   to   Jerusalem   to    fight    for   Freedom's 

cause, 
That   prophecy    may   be    fulfilled,    of   lands    untilled 

and  thousands  killed, 
And  mighty  sacrifice  be  spilled  obedient  to  law^s." 

Oh!  little  town  of  Bethlehem, 
Thy  streets  may  sound  again 
With  rhythmic  beat  of  marching  feet 
Of  world-wide  gathered  men. 
They  follow  true,  Gentile  and  Jew, 
That  great  Judean's  word, 
Who  said,  "I  do  not  bring  to  you. 
Peace,  but  I  bring  a  sword." 

15 


Throughout    each    blue    Judean    hill    stalk    martial 

figures   strange, 
And     mighty     guns     that    seek     their     range     make 

Hebron's  echoes  thrill. 


From  ancient  temple,  mosque  and  shrine, 

Cathedral,   chapel,   home, 

Come  men  who  knelt  in  England, 

Or  bowed  the  knee  at  Rome; 

Or  bent  the  brow  at  Buddhist  shrine, 

Or  failed  of  any  creed; 

All  claim  the  right  to  march  and  fight 

For  Freedom  at  her  need. 


They're  going  to  Jerusalem,  Jerusalem,  Jerusalem, 
They're  going  to  Jerusalem  with   cannon   and  with 

sword. 
From  land  of  palm  and  land  of  pine, 
From  tropic  shrine  and  Afric  mine, 
They're  going  to  Jerusalem  to  battle  for  the  Lord. 


And  the  warrior  task  is  done, 
At  set  of  sun,  at  rest  of  gun, 
Perhaps  some  Shropshire  lad  may  run 
Forgetful  of  the  war, 

16 


To  rest  his  limbs  and  drink  his  fill 
By  cool  Siloam's  shady  rill. 
Or  sleep  upon  some  sheltered  hill 
That  Sacred  feet  once  bore. 

Some   hardy  boy   from   Saskatoon 
Beneath  the  moon  may  rest  and  croon 
Some  modern  ukelele  tune 
Where  David  piped  of  yore. 
And  men  from  Dublin  and  Dundee 
Dream  deep   beneath   some   olive  tree, 
Or  row  on  peaceful  Galilee, 
Or  wander  on  its  shore. 

For  ours  shall  be  Jerusalem,  Jerusalem,  Jerusalem; 
For  ours  shall  be  Jerusalem,  that  golden  city  blest. 
The  happy  home  of  which  we've  sung  in  every  land 

and  every  tongue. 
When  there  the  pure  white  cross  is  hung 
Great  spirits  shall  have  rest! 


Written  November  22nd,  1917. 
Published  December  1st,  1917. 

Gen.  Allenby  entered  Jerusalem  December  10th,  1917. 


17 


TO    SAMMIE 

WE'LL  sew  for  you  and  knit  for  you, 
And  buy  you  "eats"  and  "smokes"; 
We'll  send  you  pretty  pictures, 

And  we'll  write  you  funny  jokes; 
We'll  pray  you  sail  safe  and  serene 

Across  the  ocean's  foam, 
And  we'll  keep  your  little  gardens  green 
Until  you  come  back  home. 

For  you  have  gone  to  fight  for  all 

That's  sacred  and  that's  dear. 
We'd  like  to  be  there  with  you; 

It's  harder  to  stay  here. 
But  we'll  be  brave,  not  tearful — 

Soldiers'  women  hide  their  pain; 
So    we'll   keep    your    hearth-fires    cheerful 

Till  you  come  home  again. 


18 


TO    LIBERTY 

SINCE   you  have   called,   "Come   follow   me 
Through  wind  and  rain  and  mire — " 
No  more   I   know  the  warmth  and  glow 
And   comfort   of  my  fire. 

Better  the  stinging  of  the  sleet 
On  my   uplifted   face, 
Than  shameful  ease  and  sophistries 
Here  in  this  sheltered  place. 

Better  to  march  through   storm  and   cold 
Across  the  embattled  land, 
So  I  but  know  the  path  you  go, 
^ly  hand  within  your  hand. 
December,  1917. 


19 


G' 


"SPURS" 
(To  Rolf  and  Donald,  R.O.T.C.    January,  1918.) 

IRD   on   my   sword   for  me, 
Mother,   my   mother. 
Say  the  last  word  for  me. 

You  and  no   other. 
Lay  your  kiss  on  my  brow; 
I  am  my  country's  now; 
She  has  my  plighted  vow — 

She  and  no  other. 

Yours   were    my    childish    tears, 

Mother,  my   mother — 
My  boyhood's  hopes  and  fears; 

And  still  no  other 
Hand  for  mine  wistful  seeks; 
Pale  for  me  no  girl's  cheeks 
Now  when  my  country  speaks. 

Mother,   my   mother. 

No  tears  for  me  must  flow, 

Mother,   my   mother. 
Smile  on  me  as  I  go, 

Your  smile,  no  other 
Gauge  shall  adorn  my  lance, 
Warding  ofif  all  mischance; 
Kiss  me,  for  I'm  for  France, 

Mother,   my   mother. 

20 


1918 

YEAR  that's  before  us,   O  year, 
Sacred  to  noble  endeavor, 
Strengthen  and  help  us  to  sever 
Bonds  of  oppression   and  fear! 

Metals  hid  deep  in  the  earth. 
Hear  how  the  nations  are  calling, 
"Save  from  the  enemy's  thralling, 
Free  us  from  famine  and  dearth!" 

Seed  in  the  granaries  lying. 
You  are  more  precious  than  gold; 
Hid  in  your  kernels  you  hold 
Power  over  living  and  dying; 

Bulbs  buried  deep  in  the  drifts, 
Roots,   reaching   snow-veiled   and   hidden, 
Yours  a  high  purpose  when  bidden 
To  beauty  that  flowers  and  uplifts. 

Love  that  lies  deeper  than  words, 
Courage  that  watches  unsleeping, 
Blossom  and  bear  for  our  reaping. 
Deeds  that  shall  battle  like  swords. 


21 


MARIANA    AT    THE    RED    CROSS    SHOP 
{Villanelle.) 
,H!  when  will  the  mail  come  in? 


0 


Now,  mother,  do   I  purl  six? 
And  how  does  the  heel  begin? 

His  last  picture  looked  so  thin; 
But  cameras  play  such  tricks — 
Oh!  when  will  the  mail  come  in? 

These  wools  don't  match;  it's  a  sin. 
Would  you  rip  out,  or  try  to  mix? 
And  how  does  the  heel  begin? 

I  can't  hear  a  word  for  din. 
That  old  sewing-motor  kicks. 
Oh!  when  will  the  mail  come  in? 

Can  I  pick  up  this  stitch  with  a  pin? 

My  needles  are  in  a  fix. 

And  how  does  the  heel  begin? 

That  dressing's  too  wrinkled,  Min. 

You  must  weight  down  your  gauze  with  bricks. 

Oh!  when  will  the  mail  come  in? 

And  how  does  the  heel  begin? 

22 


FOUR   WOMEN    IN    BLACK 

I  DREAMT   I   saw  four  women  in  black 
Who  had  borne  great  sorrow  upon  the  rack, 
Three   faced   the   future   with   brows   steadfast, 
But   the    fourth   sat   drooping,   with   eyes   downcast. 

"Why,  tell  me  why,"  I  asked  of  them, 
"Go  ye  in  black  from  bonnet  to  hem? 
Are  ye  the  mothers  of  soldiers  gone?" 
"Yes,"   they   answered   me,  every   one. 

The  first:     "My  boy  drove  an  ambulance 
And  was  killed  by  a  shell  in  northern  France." 
The   second:     "Mine  was  drowned  at  sea. 
Fighting  an  unseen  enemy." 

The  third:     "My  lad  was  an  airman  brave. 
He  lies  somewhere  in  a  German  grave." 
The  fourth  gave  answer  never  a  word. 
But  sat  in  silence,  nor  looked  nor  stirred. 

"Then  ye  do  not  weep  uncomforted?" 

To  the  three  who  had  spoken  I  softly  said. 

They  answered  as  one:     "We  are  filled  with  pride. 

It  was   for  their  country  our  boys  have  died." 

23 


"And  what  is  your  story?"  I  asked  and  turned 
To  the  fourth.     Her  eyes  to  my  eyes  burned. 
"My  story  is  other  than  theirs.     No  pride 
Take  I  in  telling  how  my  boy  died." 

He  died  of  neglect,  of  cold,  and  damp, 
Here  at  home,  in  a  crowded  camp, 
While   statesmen  wrangled  at   Washington, 
The  country  that  bore  him  killed  my  son. 

"When  History  writes  on  the  page  of  fame 
In  letters  of  gold  each  hero's  name, 
These  mothers  shall  see  emblazoned  there 
The   glorious  names   of  the   sons   they  bare. 

"But  I — what  solace  for  such  as  I? 

Deep  in  our  hearts  we  must  stifle  our  cry. 

Who  will  listen?     And  who   will   care 

For  boys  who  die  here  and  not  'over  there'? 

"Was  it  my  own  vote,  at  Washington, 
That  helped  the  nation  to  kill  my  son? 
If  this  be  treason,"  her  voice  came  broken, 
"Then  make  the  most  of  it.     I   have   spoken." 

I  dreamt  I  saw  four  women  in  black. 

But  three  for  comfort  did  not  lack — 

But   the    fourth   bore    sorrow   that   knows    no   end- 

The  sorrow  of  one  betrayed  by  a  friend. 

February  third,  1918. 

24 


THE    HEART    OF    LINCOLI 

STILL  heart,  do  you  thrill,  heart? 
Heart   do  you   beat   again? 
Thrill  and  beat  at   the   marching  feet 
Of  America's  young  men? 

Splendid   heart,   unended   heart, 

Heart  of  our  prayers   and   songs, 

Beat  from  the  dust,  as  well  you  must. 
At  the   injured  peoples'  wrongs. 

Weeping  heart,  unsleeping  heart. 
Somewhere   beyond  the   grave 

Do  you  not  throb  at  every   sob 
Wrung  from  a  fettered  slave? 

Oh  grave   heart,  and  brave   heart, 

Heart  of  our  Lincoln,  today 
Live  in   the  truth  and  the  splendid  youth 
Of  our  young  men  marching  away! 
February,  1918. 


25 


THE    PIANO    RECITAL    IN    WARTIME 

In  a  room  all  gleam  and  glisten,  where  the  light 
half  shines  half  dims  on  velvet  curtains  rich  and 
crimson,  there  they  come  to  rest  and  listen. 
Women — Women,  quiet,  sitting  strange,  laconic  at 
their  knitting,  in  that  artificial  place,  with  their  fur- 
belows and  lace,  furs  and  softness,  charm  and  grace. 

They  are  smiling,  softly  speaking,  eye  for  friendly 
eye  is  seeking,  but  the  old  light-hearted  chatter  over 
every  trival  matter,  that  is  gone;  a  gentle  clatter  of 
the  needles  rises  high,  till  they  almost  seem  to  sigh 
in  a  curious  litany — 

"God  of  Battles,  hear  us  pray! 
Be  with  all  our  boys  today!" 

A  long-haired  Russian,  glowering  pale,  with  figure 
stooping,  shoulders  frail,  bows  and  bends  from  left 
to  right,  then  turns  a  profile  strange  and  white;  sits 
on  a  bench,  adjusts  his  coat,  then  crashes  sudden 
on  the  keys,  runs  a  light  course  from  note  to  note, 
then  weaves  his  wondrous  melodies.  How  his 
fingers  lift  them,  sift  them  into  music,  strange  and 
plastic,  while  his  face,  still-set,  monastic  in  its  curious 
detachment,  never  alters,  never  changes,  while  the 
music  swells  and  ranges,  while  a  vision  to  my 
thought  from  a  far-off  land  is  brought.  Men  like 
him   in   Moscow   now   fail   their   tryst   with   Liberty, 

26 


traitor  to  their  nation's  vow,  false  to  honor,  careless 
how  we  may  blame  across  the  sea.  Swiftly,  silent, 
deftly  plying,  still  the  needles  go  a-flying  in  a  rhythm 
all  their  own,  in  and  out  and  out  and  in,  in  a  strange 
determined  measure,  in  a  poignant  undertone,  like 
a  protest  against  pleasure,  calling,  calling  silently  in 
their  ceaseless  litany — 

"God  of  Battles,  save  from  harm! 
Help   our  boys   and  keep   them   warm!" 

The  pianist  has  supple  wrist,  strong  hand  and 
flexible  fingerjoint.  With  poise  and  ease  he  strikes 
the  keys,  and  adds  the  subtle  counterpoint  our  day 
brings  to  old  melodies,  making  them  dance  and  turn 
and  twist,  Russian,  Norwegian,  Polish,  Finnish, 
simple,  involved,  abstruse,  or  thinnish,  throughout 
the  morning  without  pause  excepting  for  the  soft 
applause,  he  weaves  his  harmonies.  But  all  the 
time  a  countercharm  spins  from  each  woman's 
bended  arm — 

"God  of  Battles,  help  us  make 

A  shield  that  shall  all  weapons  break!" 

Can  a  soft  hour's  dreaming  harm  us?  Strange 
Debussy's  eerie  magic,  wistful  spell  of  Chopin's  long- 
ing, Rachmaninoff's  passions  thronging,  or  Tschai- 
kowsky's  message  tragic?  Now  comes  wondrous 
Brahms  to  charm  us.     Will  his  melodies  disarm  us? 

27 


Art,  men  say,  is  universal,  has  no  message,  has  no 
banner.  There's  no  hint  of  a  dispersal,  but  a  subtle 
change  of  manner,  while  more  potent  and  more 
high  swells  the  elemental  cry — 

"God  of  Battles,  turn  the  Huns, 

And  help  our  sons,  and  help  our  sons!" 

The  programme's  done.  At  lengthened  clapping 
the  Russian  smiles.  As  though  caught  napping,  re- 
sumes his  air  of  studied  gloom,  bows  low  again  and 
leaves  the  room.  The  audience  rises,  turns  to  go, 
with  swish  of  skirts  and  hurrying  feet,  when  upward 
from  the  busy  street  there  comes  the  rhythmic  beat 
and  flow  of  drum  and  fife,  of  shout  and  call.  The 
women  turn  and  one  and  all  run  to  the  window^ 
while  the  band  goes  by.  They  talk  and  laugh  and 
cry  and  w^ave  a  handkerchief  or  hand.  In  khaki 
files  the  boys  are  lined,  while  the  fife  insistent  plays 
a  marching  song  of  other  days,  "The  Girl  I  Left 
Behind." 

Grief  and  worry,  care  and  hurry  fade  from  every 
woman's  face.  Joy  and  pride  and  fine  emotion  take 
their  place.  Gone  is  fear,  and  indecision,  for  there 
shines  the  clearer  vision  in  the  courage  and  the 
truth   of   this    splendid   marching  youth. 

"God  of  Battles,  praise  to  thee! 
Soon  all  people  shall  be  free!" 

28 


EASTER.  1918 

THE   Easter  bells  ring  in  the  morn, 
A  robin  calls  the  spring; 
The  purple  crocus  is  reborn, 

The  buds  are   opening. 
Nature  resurgent  breathes  of  hope, 

She  blossoms  unafraid, 
While  heroes   fight  and  bleed  and  die 
For   Liberty  betrayed. 

Unheeded  is  the  robin's  call, 

In  vain  the  Easter  chimes. 
In  vain  the  altar  lilies  tall 

Whisper  of  happier  times. 
We  only  hear  the  children's   cries — 

The  mothers'  piteous  moans. 
They  mingle  with  the  cannons'  roar 

And  drown  out  nearer  tones. 

Our  spirits   call  in  righteous  wrath, 

"Lord  God  of  battles,  hear! 
Unloose  Thy  thunders   in   their  path, 

Thy  lightning  bid  appear!" 
Our  heartbeats   seem  no  more   our  own, 

Their  rhythms  as  we  pray 
Swing  into  unison  with  guns 

Three  thousand  miles  away. 

29 


Mothers,  your  prayers  and  your  complaints- 
Children,  your  piteous   cries — 

Must  reach  high  heaven  and  the  saints 
In  blissful  paradise. 

All  angels  and  archangels  stand 
Waiting  the  fiery  word, — 

"Ye  cherubim,  your  trumpets  blow! 
Michael,  unsheathe  your  sword!" 

Heroes,  ye  have  not  died  in  vain 

In  trench  and  sea  and  sky; 
Your  souls  shall  win  to  earth  again 

To  lead  to  victory. 
The  Cross  flies  o'er  Jerusalem! 

We  sing,  this  Eastertide, 
"The  Son  of  God  goes  forth  to  war"! 

We  battle  by  his  side. 


30 


THE    AIRMAN 

I  DREAM   I  see  him  soar  on  high, 
Remote,   as   when    the    swallows 
Cleave   through   the   airy   paths   of   sky, 
And   dip   in   cloudy    hollows. 
Ah,   love  of  mine,   look   far,   look  nigh! 
Beware,   for   danger   follows! 

A  sigh  on  the  horizon's  lip; 
A  murmur  growing  nearer; 
Wide  wings  which  like  the  eagle's  dip; 
A   menace,   showing   clearer; 
Sails    screaming,   like    some   laboring   ship- 
That  ship;  Ah  God!  I  fear  her. 

A  beating  flame,  a  clash,  a  roar; 

A  falling  shape,  unheeding; 

Your  pinions  unmolested  soar, 

You  rise  exultant,  speeding. 

The  grim  grey  danger's  past  and  o'er — 

'Tis  not  my  love  lies  bleeding. 


31 


YOUR    WOMEN    AT    HOME 

"It  takes  ten  men  hei-e  to  keep  one  man  at  the  front." 

— Campaign   Slogan. 

HAVE  you  thought,  dear  boy,  how  many  there  are 
Of  the  women  who  help  you  win? 
Whose  thoughts  o'er  the  ocean  come  travelling  far 
To  you,  mid  the  battle  din? 

The  mother,  too  loyal  to  shed  a  tear 

The  day  that  you  went  away; 
The  sister  who  knits,  and  writes  to  cheer. 

And  the  friend  of  your  boyhood's  day. 

There's  a  sweetheart — or  is  it  a  brave  young  wife, 

And  perhaps  a  wee  girl-child — 
A  part  of  your  own  love  and  life 

Who  waved  a  small  hand  and  smiled? 

But  others  there  are  whom  you  never  will  know, 

Who  are  helping  just  the  same; 
They  pray  for  you  softly,  wherever  you  go. 

Though  they  know  not  your  face  or  name. 

There  are  girls  whose  nimble  fingers  flew 
O'er  the  threads  of  the  power  machine, 

To  stitch  the  khaki  or  the  blue 

That  goes  to  you  soft  and  clean. 

32 


There  are  women  who  work  in  a   noisy  room 

Where  the  whirring  shuttles  fly, 
Doing  their  bit  at  the  tireless  loom 

So  you  may  keep  warm  and  dry. 

And  many  are  giving  their  youthful  bloom 

Where  poisoned  chemicals  lie, 
Where  the   shells  are  made  that  spell  the  doom 

Of  our  cruel  enemy. 
There  are  hundreds,  thousands,  who  till  the  ground. 

Or  are  cooking  in  factories, 
Raising  the  food,  and  making  it  sound 

That  we  send  you  overseas. 

There  are  women,  women  all  over  the  land, 

Who  save  and  patch  and  mend, 
With  willing  unaccustomed  hand. 

That  they  may  have  more  to  spend 

For  you  and  their  country — women  who  bought 

For  adornment,  before  the  war. 
Now  count  their  beauty  a  thing  of  naught 

For  Freedom — and  you  mean  more. 

And  none  of  them  think  it  a  sacrifice 

To  toil  for  you,  near  and  far, 
For  each  of  them  wears  in  her  constant  eyes 

The  Spirit's  bright  Service  Star. 

33 


SERVICE    FLAGS 

ACROSS   our  land   a   skulking  spirit   creeps, 
With   furtive   eyes,  and  hands   that  clutch  and 
scratch; 
It  pauses  at  each  prairie  dugout's  latch. 
Or  where  some  mountain  cottage-doorway  keeps 
The  winds  at  bay  while  the  tired  miner  sleeps; 
It  stalks  malignant,  ever  on  the  watch 
Through  town  and  city,  though  no  eye  may  catch 
Glimpse  of  its  path,  take  count  of  what  it  reaps. 

You  ask  the  spirit's  name?     Disloyalty 

It  is,  reaching  with  hideous  hand 

To  menace  us  from  sea  to  farthest  sea. 

What  power  have  we  to  hold  it  back  like  bars — 

Little  soft  flags,  bearing  their  modest  stars. 

The  Patriot's  Passover,  that  saves  our  land! 

February   14th,   1918. 


34 


TO    OUR    FOREIGN    BORN 

STAND    forth,   you   children   of  a   foster   mother! 
Stand  where   our  banner  waves,   our  drumbeats 
roll 
From  sea  to  sea,  from  Tropic  to  the  Pole! 
We,  who  have  hailed  you  o'er  the  seas  as  "Brother," 
Have  fed  you,  roofed  you,  led  you  from  the  smother 
Of  old  autocracies,  have  freed  your  soul 
From    ancient    fears,    have    cleansed    and    made    you 

whole 
Under  clear  skies  to  live  and  love  each  other — 
Make  this  demand:     Will  you  sit  by  unheeding 
While  true  sons  die  to  save  you?     Will  you  thrive 
On  our  rich  fields,  and  warm  you  by  our  fire, 
While  true  sons  go  unfed  in  cold  and  mire? 
Come  forth  and  fight,  to  keep  your  souls  alive! 
Stand  forth  and   fight  where   Liberty  lies  bleeding! 


35 


A    SOLDIER    SPEAKS 

MY  life?     What  is  it  but  a  bla-ded  tool 
Come,     newly-welded,     from     the     earth,     our 
mother? 
Shall  I  dare  use  it  for  a  purpose  other 
Than  what  is  taught  me  at  the  swordsman's  school? 
"Lay  it  away   in   wrappings,"  quoth  the   fool, 
"Better  its  edge  should  dull,  that  rust  should  smother 
Its  shining  brightness,  than  that  man,  your  brother, 
Should  chance  to  feel  its  metal,  smiting  cool." 
Nay,  fool!     The  conflict  I  will  meet  serenely — 
The  struggle,  clash,  the  chance  of  early  breaking, 
The  pain  of  wounds  received,  grief  at  wounds  given. 
Each  man  must  wield  his  life  with  hand  unshaking. 
Must  learn  to  guard,  to  feint,  to  thrust  forth  keenly, 
And  laughing  die,  if  fruitless  he  has  striven. 


36 


THE    TROOPSHIP 

COULD   Cortez  in   his  vision  of  empery, 
De  Leon  in  his  dream  of  youth  unending, 
Foretell  these  ships  that  plow  the  sullen  sea 
With  golden  freight  of  courage  we  are   sending. 
O  ancient  harbors,  waken  from  your  dreams 
To  watch  these  galleons,  laden  with  great  treasure, 
Returning  to  j^our  olden  fountain  streams — 
Our  debt,  repaid  in  overflowing  measure! 
Beat  high,  O  hearts  of  youth!    And  young  blood  race 
Through   valiant   veins!      Young   eyes    new   to   sea- 
faring 
Keep  ceaseless  watch  upon  the  water's  face 
Lest  lurking  monsters  strike  with  cruel  daring! 
Sail  softly,  silently!     Wake  not  from  sleep 
Leviathan,  the  dastard  of  the  deep! 


2>7 


TO    THE    INVADERS 

'^TOU  desecrators   of  the   shrines, of  Rheims! 
-L     You,  from  the  North,  the  Vandal's  counterpart! 
Will  you  destroyers  of  all  grace  and  art 
Trample  Italia  as  you  trampled  France? 
Touch  not  historic  Venice!     Your  advance 
Would  murder  beauty  like  a  poisoned  dart, 
Would  build  a  Bridge  of  Sighs  in  every  heart. 
And  win  posterity's  averted  glance. 
We  will  not  brook  your  further  deeds.     Take  care! 
Not  only  shall  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark 
Turn   fierce  to   meet  your  two-faced  vulture   beaks. 
But  England's  Lion,  too,  fights  on.     And  hark 
Where  mighty  wings  cleave  the  Atlantic  air, 
And  through  the  dawn  our  proud  grey  Eagle  speaks. 


38 


NEW    YEAR,    1918 

WE  shall  not  see  our  women  as  of  old, 
Mere  timid  suppliants  at  the  gates  of  time, 
But  waiting  where  the  future  points,  sublime, 
Commanding,   to   a   destiny   unrolled 
In  widening  fields  of  service  manifold. 
We,  the  strong  women  of  the  nation,  now 
Must  put  our  willing  shoulders  to  the  plow  , 
And  plant  the  grain  that  brings  a  harvest's  gold. 
Forget  ignoble  ease,  for  now  is  hurled 
A  challenge.     Ours  not  only  to  keep  bright 
The  olden  fires,  to  do  the  quiet  tasks 
Of  household  routine.     This  great  future  asks 
That  we  shall  help  our  warrior's  swords  to  smite- 
Shall   clothe  the   naked,   feed   a  hungry  world. 


39 


TO    THOSE    WHO    WEEP 

WEEP  for  young  lads  asleep  on  some  far  hill! 
Weep,  as  you  must,  awhile  for  youth  brought 
low! 
No  one  would  rob  you  of  your  rightful  woe 
For  young  blood  sacrificed,  young  hearts  now  still. 
But  sorrow  not  too  long.     Your  days  must  fill 
With  common  tasks  again;  your  path  must  go 
Past  where  the  springs  of  grief  still  overflow — 
On  bravely  o'er  the  brow  of  Sorrow's  hill; 
For  still   there   comes  young  laughter,  and  the   call 
Of  life,  that  spurs  to  fresh  endeavoring. 
After  the  ice  melts  then  the  kind  rains  fall, 
White  trilliums  bloom  again  in  every  spring. 
So  flowers  of  service  blossom  in  us  all — 
The   human  heart  is  a  courageous  thing. 


40 


JOYCE    KILMER 

WHAT  friend  of  yours  can  ever  see  a  tree 
Lifting  its  waving  branches  to  the  blue, 
Without    some    gleaming,    glinting    thought    of   you. 
Dear  singer  of  that  leafy  mystery? 
You  felt  the  trees  your  kinsmen.     It  may  be 
That  when  the  winds  of  autumn  murmur  through 
The  gold  of  ash,  the  maple's  crimson  hue, 
The  bronze  of  beech-boughs, — if  we  listen,  we 
May  hear   a   new  voice   singing,   braver   far 
Than  the  old  keenings  of  Octobers  fled. 
Then  we  will  say:     "Returning  from  some   star 
He  comes  to  us,  not  from  the  silent  Dead, 
But  from  that   Choir   Invisible,   who   are 
God's   singing   servants"— and   be   comforted. 


41 


MONOLOGUES 


CRISTOFANO    SPEAKS 

MAESTRO  TAFI  wakes  me  from  my  sleep, 
Clamoring,  "Cristofano!     Hasten,  lad! 
Come,  grind  my  colors  for  me,  ere  the  rose 
Touches  Carrara  and  begins  the  day." 
I  shiver  and  I  yawn  to  see  him  there 
All  fat  and  funny,  lecturing  away. 
Says  he,  "My  soul  already  thrills  and  swells 
With   ecstasy  at  what   I   plan   to   do. 
My  fingers  itch  to   ply  the  soft-haired  brush 
Which  eases  to  the  canvas  those  sheer  weights 
Of  pigment  which  transmute  to  works  of  art." 
Corpo  di    Bacco!  listen  to  the  man! 
His  pigments  and  his  transmutations,  God! 
When  I  was  dreaming  of  a  sunlit  clifT 
High  in  Valdarno,  and  a  wind-warped  tree 
Over  a  tapestry  of  primulas; 
Silver  above,  and  gold-weave  under  foot 
Two   sat,  two  only,  all  the  world  apart; 
And  one  of  them,  Bianca  of  the  curls. 
Was  whispering  to  the  other,  that  was  I, 
"Oh  love,  my  love,  the  world  is  very  sweet. 
And  thou  and   I,  of  all  that  God  has  made, 
Are   to   each   other   faithfully   inclined"; 
Then   lifted   she  unsullied   lips  to  mine, 
When  .  .  .  "Cristofano,    sleepy    lout!      Arise! 
Quick  to   my   call,  ere   I   cold   water  fling 

45 


Upon   that  lazy  lumpish  form  of  thine!" 
A  murrain  on  his  painting,  and  on  him! 
What  are  his  pictures  or  his  scoffs,  to  me, 
Who  may  not  dream  Bianca's  kiss  again? 
For  I,  forlorn,  may  have  no  kiss  of  hers 
Save  only  in  the  boundaries  of  dream. 
When  last  beneath  that  ancient  olive-tree 
Came  the  gold  flash  that  turned  to  primulas, 
A  long,  long  year  ago — they  dug  her  grave. 


46 


THE    OLD    MAESTRO    SPEAKS 

LIGHTLY,  boy.     Lightly!     Colors  are  not  dough 
One  forms  in  little  cakes  to  feed  to  swine. 
They  must  go  on  transparent,  so  you  see 
The   soul  upon   the   canvas  through   the   paint. 
Cristo!  when  now^  at  last  I  apperceive 
How  art  is  best  produced;  have  learned  the  trick 
Of  placing  here  a  bright  note,  there  a  dark, 
Just  as  Old  Messer  Sun  selects  his  hues, 
I  am  benumbed  with  knavish  thieving  pains 
That  rob  my  fingers  of  their  supple  craft, 
And  almost  wring  the  tears, — while  here's  a  lad 
Whose  hands  are  easy-running,  joints  move  free. 
Each  hinge  bends  supple,  knows  its  business, — so. 
I  lift  one  to  the  light,  the  quick  blood  flows 
Keen,  shines  through  flesh  in  the  sharp  morning  sun. 
His  are  the  hands  I  make  by  proxy  mine. 
Could  I  but  graft  my  brain  beneath  his   curls, 
Or   better,   disengage   those   hands   of   his 
To  serve  my  purpose  at  the  nerves'  commands — 
We'd  have  a  painter,  and  a  miracle. 

What's  that  you  say,  lad?     Want  a  holiday? 
Your  Fiametta?     And  her  fiesta?     Games? 
Come,  come,  I'll  pay  you  double,  if  you  stay. 
Well  then — be  off.     I  know  your  sort  of  old. 
Too  tight  a  check,  you  only  fume  and  fret; 

47 


Unwilling  hands  can  only  sully  art; 

I'll  call  young  Giacomo,  he'll  gladly  come, 

To  take  your  place.     He  will  need  soldi  soon, 

That  silly  little  wife  of  his — well,  well! 

No   matter,  but  each  extra  mouth   takes   food. 

The  lad  has  gone  swift-footed.     It  is  hard. 
He  is  perhaps  infinitesmally 
More   useful,  or  less  inexpert  than  t'other. 
They  both  are  for  the  women;  deem  an  hour 
Spent  underneath  the  sun  with  a  brown  girl 
As  counting  more  in  worth  than  a  whole  day 
Spent  at  the  easel's  side,  measuring  oil, 
Grinding  my   colors,  laying  on   the   paint — 
This  way  and  that  in  satiny  smooth  strokes, 
And  learning  to  be  painters,  like  to  me. 
Art  was  my  mistress  when  I  had  their  years. 
Women!     I  needed  none  except  for  this — 
To  serve  as  models.     If  I  could  have  made 
Lay  figures  do  me,  like  yon  puppet  there, 
Whose  wooden  shoulders  hold  that  velvet  robe, 
I  had  preferred  it.     Let  me  try  a  brush 
Of  carmine  color  for  that  radiant  fold. 
Perhaps  my  crippled  hand  will  still  have  power 
For  drapery  at  least.     Aie!     What  a  twinge! 
It  runs  like  forked  lightning  up  my  arm. 
I'll   rest   a   while. 

48 


Women!     They've  come  and  gone; 
Flashed  in  and  out,  the   fools.     Yet  one   there  was, 
Giulia   her   name — no — yes,   'twas    Giulia. 
She   seemed  a   shade   less   silly  than  the   rest. 
A  slender  slip  of  girlhood,  pale  of  cheek, 
With  blue  eyes  where  there  lurked  a  wraith  of  tears, 
Like  rain-washed  gentians  in  the  autumn  breeze. 
She  was  the  Dolorous  Mother  in  the  group 
Which  first  won  fame  for  me.     She  could  stand  still 
For  hours,  could  hold  her  patient  face  upraised 
With   eyes  of  adoration — had  in  her 
Some   spirit   that   enabled  her  to   look 
The  very  creature  that  I  bade  her  be. 

Then  came  a  day  she  said,  "The  picture's  done, 

Or  nearly  so,  and  I   shall  come  no  more. 

Next  week  they  wed  me  to  Porfirio; 

And  I  must  help  my  mother  to  prepare 

The   feast;   and   you — you've  no  more  need  of  me." 

I  glanced  at  her.     I  saw  within  her  eyes 

Two  tears  brim  out  and  rest  there,  rest  lash-hung. 

"Stop!      Do   not   move   nor   wink,"    I    cautioned   her. 

I  seized  my  brush,  dipped  white,  a  touch  of  blue. 

Then  painted  the  two  globes  of  trembling  pearl 

That  glisten  on   Madonna's  grief-white  cheek 

Above  the   altar,  in   San   Bruno's   church. 

"Now  come,"  I  called  the  girl.     "The  work  is  done. 

I  needed  just  those  two  tears  to  complete 

49 


My  picture."     She  drew  near,  regarded  it 
Strangely  a  moment,  turned  to  look  at  me 
With   curious   gaze,   and  then,   "Farewell,"   she   said. 
"I'm  glad  I  helped  your  picture,"  half  held  out 
A   trembling  hand,  then   drew  it  quickly  back. 

"No.     Not  a  touch," — thus  strangely  then  she  spoke. 
"My  hands,  my  lips,  my  duty,  these  shall  go 
To  old   Porfirio.     You,   good   sir,  have   had 
Two  tears  of  me  and  so,  good  sir,  farewell." 
She  turned  to  go,  but  as  she  reached  the  door 
Turned  back  and  spoke  again:     "You  had  of  me 
My  best  in  those  two  tears." — Then  she  was   gone. 
A  strange  pale  girl — I  never  saw  her  more. 

From  that  day  on  my  fame  stood  on  two  feet, 

I'd  learned  the  trick,  to  paint  a  woman's  tears; 

Was  in  demand  for  chapels,  convents,  shrines — 

Wherever  altars  needed  the  sad  face 

With  upturned  weeping  eyes  of  Mary   Queen. 

Some  say  that   Dolci  has  the  better  knack. 

Mayhap  he  has,  but   I  have  alchemy. 

For  with  my  brush   I  can  turn  tears  to  gold. 

There  came  a  day  I  heard  two  striplings  talk 
About  my  work.     "Yes,  he  is  very  great, 
On  one  side  only.     Art  has  many  sides. 
You  note  he  never  tries  to  paint  a  smile." 
That  angered  m.e.     I  made  a  faithful  vow 

50 


That  ere  Sir  Death  should  snatch  my  brush  away 
I'd  learn  to  paint  a  smile,  the  tender  smile 
Our   Lady  sheds  upon  her   cradled  Lord. 

I've  watched  and  studied  every  curving  mouth 

Where'er  I  saw  a  happy  mother  bend 

Above  her  baby.     Now  I  think  I  know 

That  trick  of  smiling,  I  could  paint  a  mouth 

With  lips  ready  to  beam  triumphant  lines 

Of  happy  mother-laughter.     If  the  fools 

Want  smiles,  as  well  as  tears,  I'll  paint  them  smiles. 

I   know  the   critic   twaddle — "Joy  and   grief, 

"Art  must  be  many-sided.     Heart  and  hand 

"And  head — these  make  the  artist's  trinity." 

They   prate.     The   fools.     'Tis   hand,   'tis   hand   that 

counts — 
And   this   of   mine   obeys   nor   head   nor   heart. 
I  must  depend  on  lads  like  him  that's  gone, 
Or    stupid    Giacomo,    slow-witted    dolts, 
Dull-eyed  and  unobservant — they  who  choose 
A  tavern  table,  singing,  and  a  girl, 
Rather  than  sacred  hours  spent  at  a  work, 
Might  link  their  names  immortally  with  mine. 

Yet  I  will  not  give  up.     Not  yet — not  yet. 
Since  head  and  heart  hold  out  there  still  is  time. 
Hulloa  down  there!     Avanti,  Giacomo! 
Here's  work  for  thee — and  scudi  for  the  wife. 

51 


A    MAN    SPEAKS    OF    ROSES 

THREE  roses   I   have  had. 
Three   rosebuds   bloomed   upon   Life's   tree,   all 
mine — 
Mine  for  the  plucking  by  the  laws  of  Life 
Inscrutable. 

In  their  shy  loveliness,  their  pink  and  dew, 
From  off  the  thorny  branch  I  gathered  them, 
Each  in  its  turn,  and  each  in  turn  I  gave 
Into  a  woman's  hand  for  cherishing. 

The  first  most  perfect  bud  was  gift  for  one 

As  coldly  dewy  exquisite  as  the  flower. 

She  thanked  me  with  a  pensive  gentle  glance, 

Then  laid  it  carefully  between  the  leaves 

Of  some  old  worn  romance. 

From  time  to  time   I   know 

She  takes  the  faded  thing  from  out  the  book. 

And  looks  at  it.     A  mouldering  crumbling,  sere. 

Odorless   simulacrum  of  what   was 

So  lovely. 

A  form  of  ashes  that  a  passing  gust 

Of  the  fierce  blustering  wind,  Reality, 

Would  crumple  into  its   component  dust. 

The  second  bud,  less  perfect,  went  to  grace 
A  dusky,  warm-hued  creature — 

52 


Flower-in-bloom  she  seemed — 

The  bud  to  her  recalled — God  knows! 

She  looked  at  me  and  laughed. 

She  took  the  flower,  and  bending  low,  face  hid, 

She  blew  hot  breath  into  its  pure  sweet  folds, 

Till  it,  untimely,  opened  in  her  hand. 

Deliberate  then  she  tore  the  petals  off 

From  their  green  ca^^x,  tossed  them  in  the  air. 

And  laughed  and  laughed  again  to  see  them  fall. 

One  tiny  petal  touched  me  ere  it  dropped 

And  burnt  like  living  coal. 

What  hideous  alchem}'^  so  soon  could  turn 

A  thing  so  lovely  to  a  thing  accursel? 

A  third  pale  bud,  a  weak-formed,  sickly  thing 

I  gave  for  keeping  to  a  slender  girl, 

Who  took  it  timidly,  with  trembling  hand. 

But  she,  she  cherished  it  with  tenderness, 

And  placed  its  stem  within  a  crystal  vase, 

And  took  it  to  the  comfort  of  her  room. 

It  opened  to  full  beauty; 

Every  day  its  golden  heart,  expanded,  richer-hued. 

At  the  appointed  time,  softly  and  noiselessly. 

But  vfith  no  sadness  it  let  petals  fall. 

Like  crimson  robes  outworn. 

These  she  took  up,  and  with  fair  spices  laid 

To  turn  to  fragrant  memory;  then — 

With  loving  craft  she  cut  the  thorny  stem 

53 


Although  her  fingers  bled. 

She  planted,  tended  it  in  warmth  and  sun, 

Till  thorns  turned  shoots,  then  green  fair  branches 

came. 
God  grant  new  buds  shall  blossom  for  us  two! 
It  shall  be  so! 

Oh!  bud  of  perfect  and  sincere  completion, 

That  was  the  least  in  promise! 

Oh!  strange,  hard  ways  of  Life,  and  blinded  eyes  of 

youth! 
What  necessary  purpose  in  those  other  twain? 
Or  since  I  need  must  pluck  them 
Why,  oh !  why 

Could   I  not  give  them  to  the  tender  hand 
Of  her  whose  wisdom  knew  what  roses  are? 


54 


INTERVAL 

THE  stillness  is  a  fearful  thing 
That  creeps  and  crouches  menacing — 
And  I  lie  spent.     The  pain  seems  sated, 
Or  sleeps  somewhere,  abated 
Because  of — what?     I  knew. 
Because  of  poppy-dew. 

The  whole  house  sleeps;  the  worn-out  watcher  sleeps 
After  her  anxious  hours. 
And  out  of  some  strange  deeps 
Beyond  my  utmost  powers 
This  treacherous  silence  creeps. 


Oh,  I  could  shriek  from  dread! 
But  listen,  ticking  clear 
A  tiny  clock  that  guards  my  bed. 
Now  four  long  cries,  each  like  a  groan, 
From  the  old  timepiece  that  is  standing 
Like  some  decrepit  servitor,  upon  the  creaking  land- 
ing; 
Now  farther  off  the  ship-clock's  tone 
Proclaims  eight  bells — eight  bells  I  hear. 
Now  change  the  watch !     They'll  change  their  watch — 
Those  Things,  those  creeping  Things,  that   wait  to 

catch 
And  overpower  and  master  me  at  will. 

55 


A    momentary   vision    of    the    sea,   in    a    far   harbor 

underneath  a  hill, 
Where  my  dear  love  and  I  once  dreamed  together. 
One  afternoon,  of  soft  Pacific  weather. 
Watching  the  sea-gulls  circle,  soar  and  dip — 
When  from  an  anchored  ship 
Came  eight  clean  strokes,  and  a  man's  call 
Across  the  water,  and  we  held  our  breath 
At  beauty  of  it  all. 

Now  I  wait  .  .  . 

What  traffic  have  I  with  beauty?     Is  it  death 

Knocks  at  the  gate? 

Peace,  morbid  fool,  that  is  myself!     Give  over; 
Lay  hold  of  what  is  clean;  think  of  white  clover 
And  sunny  fields,  and  brown  sweet  earth,  of  which 
you  have  been  lover. 

Think  of  the  spring  and  seeds  and  little  shoots 
And  tiny  reaching  baby-fingered  roots. 
And  all  things  fresh  and  gentle  and  most  calm. 
All  these  shall  be  again  for  you,  and  soon. 
Can  you  not  feel  sweet  Nature's  reaching  palm 
Pulling  you  up  out  of  your  spirit's  swoon? 

Yes,  but  that  other  hand  that  I  would  shun 
Pulls  too,  and  clutches.     Nature  holds  but  one, 

56 


While  that  relentless  other  drags  me  whither 
My  voyaging  has  trended, 

Since  that  first  day  and  morn  when   I   was  born 
To   this,  when  all   my   little   day   seems   ended. 

I   fear  that  unknown  port.     Must   I   drift  thither? 

The  sound  of  waves  is  beating  in  my  ears; 

I  drown  in  fears. 

Will  no  one,  no  one  come?  .  .  .  And  still  that  pain 

is  there 
Crouching,   somewhere — 

And  that  strange  other  thing,  creaks  on  the  stair. 
It's  at  my  door.     It's  here!     I'm  such  a  fool; 
Did  I   shriek,  doctor?     I   am  so  ashamed. 
I'm  really  not  so  nervous  as  a  rule; 
And   yet,   somehow,   I   hardly   can   be  blamed. 
You  never  came  so  late  as  this  before. 
"Early,"  you  say?    Yes,  that  describes  it  more — 
Exactly.     Doctor,  I've  felt  the   strangest  fear- 
Somebody,   some   thing,   somewhere,   there,   or   here. 
I   can't  explain — it  lurked  and  hid  and  crept  .  .  . 
"The  Morphine?     Have   I  slept?"     I   have   not  slept. 
"Too  weak  a  dose?"     Don't  give  it  me  again. 
The  pain  is  awful,  but  I'll  take  the  pain!" 


0/ 


SLEEPLESS    IN    THE    CITY 

THE   great   fierce   hum,   the   city's, din    and   strife 
Sing  into   sullen   rhythmic   far-off   beats, 
Like  some  vast  heart  pulsing  an   angry  tune. 
The  passing  steps  of  men  sound  faint  and  far, 
Save  when  some  boisterous   drunken   reveller 
Distorts   the   quiet   with   his    careless    song. 
From  time  to  time  along  the  asphalt  street 
The  tired-out  cab-horse  plop-plop-plops  toward  home, 
To  win  his  hard-earned  rest  a  little  while. 
From  time  to  time  some  demon  motor  shrieks, 
Cutting  the  night  air  with   a  knife   of   sound. 

I   lie  awake  counting  the   chiming  hours. 
I  hear  the  whistles  of  the  far-off  ships — 
Filled,  who  can  tell?  with  sleepless  folk  like  me. 
Weep  they  for  grief  at  what  they  leave  behind? 
Weep  they  for  fear  at  what  the  future  holds? 
Weep  they  like  me,  who  know  both  grief  and  fear? 
Stillness,  that  is  not  still;  darkness,  that  is  not  dark; 
What  do  ye  hold  of  misery  and  tears? 

Through  the  night's  minor,  comes  a  saner  note, 
Striking  the   daytime's  key   of  constant   tasks; 
The  whistle  of  the  milklad  to  his  horse, 
The  rattle  of  the  bottles  that  he  leaves 
Little  white  sentries,  outside  every  door. 
Why  speculate?     I've  still  three  hours  to  sleep! 

58 


LOT'S    WIFE 

THE  angel  spake:     "Jehovah  is  not  bhnd. 
He   sees  your   city   deeply  choked   in   sin, 
And  bids  ye  flee,  nor  dare  to  look  behind, 
While  His  consuming  flames  shall  enter  in 
To  purge  it  clean  of  His  Almighty  wrath." 
Then  did  we  flee  affrighted  up  the  path. 
But  I,  although  I  joined  in  that  mad  race, 
Felt  my  heart  growing  heavy,  for  it  3'earned 
O'er   the   forsaken   city  as   it   burned, 
Dwelling  in  turn  on   each  remembered  place. 


The  house  where  I  was  born;  the  stone-rimmed  well 

Where  first  I  peered  to  see  my  childish  face; 

The  court,  w^here  with  my  mother,  at  our  ease, 

We  wove  upon  the  loom  faint  traceries, 

While  her  soft  voice  admonished,  or  would  tell 

Old  tales  her  mother  once   had  taught  to  her. 

Then  that  fair  other  house  where  as  a  bride, 

My  husband,  o'er  the  threshold  flower-strewn,  wide. 

Lifted  me  in  his  arms  in  joyous  pride, 

To  rule  its  pleasant  domesticities. 

There  were  my  children  born,  who  side  by  side 

Played   in   the   sunlit  court,  with  merry  din, 

Or  dozed  among  the   Oleander's  shade. 

Thus,  scarcely  thinking  how  it  was  a  sin, 

59 


Or,  that  Jehovah's  self  I  disobeyed, 

For  one  last  backward  look  my  feet  I  stayed. 

For  that  one  backward  look  He  punished  me. 
These  latter  days  I  brood  within  my  stone, 
Thinking  in  my  dumb  way  of  what  is  gone. 
The  others  of  those  fleeing,  where  are  they? 
The  men  were  brave.     Doubtless  they  labored  well, 
Hewed  timber,  smote  the  rock,  built  a  new  town 
Where   safe  at  eventide   they   laid   them  down. 
Alas,  I  nothing  know.     None  comes  to  tell. 

The  women?     Did  they  mourn  for  many  a  day, 
Or  did  they  turn  with  courage  to  the  task 
Of  settling  the  new  homes  in  that  far  place? 
Did  none  among  them   ever  miss   my   face, 
Nor  of  my  fate  did  any  care  to  ask? 
Did   Oleanders  new  grow  like   the  old? 
Were  the  new  well-springs  bubbling  fresh  and  cold? 
Who   knows?     Who   cares?     The  World   moves   on 
apace. 

Yet,   (did  I  dream?)     I  heard  faint  voices  speak 
Of  a  new  God,  our  great  Jehovah's  son. 
Born  of  a  woman  who  was  like  to  me 
Save   that  she   sinless   was,  while   I   was  weak. 
They  spoke  of  Him  as  merciful,  this  One; 

60 


So  in   my   soul  which   dies  not,   I   do  trow 
That  being  born   of  woman,   He  will  know 
Something  of  that  within,  which  turns  and  clings 
To  what  is  past — the  dear  remembered  things. 
Some  day,  when  with  the  Father  He  doth  plead 
For  sinners,  to  my  case  He  may  give  heed. 
Till  great  Jehovah  for  the  love  he  bears 
His  Son,  will  listen  to  my  piteous  prayers, 
And  will  forgive — and  then  I  shall  be  freed. 


61 


So  I'm  to  be  d 
ing  days  all 


AFTER    THE    ACCIDENT 
(A   Dancer   Speaks) 
dead  and  done  with,  and  my  danc- 
ig  days  all  over! 
My  eyes'll  be   dim  to  the   flashing  lights, 
And  my  ears  be  dulled  to  the  clapping! 
Still  I'll  be,  all  the  body  of  me. 
And  my  eyes  won't  know  is  it  days  or  nights. 
And  my  ears  lie  drowned  under  long  dim  waves  of 
silence  lapping. 

Well!      I    have   been   happy,    and    I    have    been    gay, 

with  lovers  many; 
And  to  some  I  gave  but  my  finger-tips, 
And  to  some  a  touch  of  warm  red  lips, 
And  to  some  a  sigh,  or  a  flash  of  the  eye; 
But  all  I  gave  was  for  friendliness,  and  not  for  any 

man's  penny. 
I  followed  my  calling  and  danced  my  dance, 
And  when  some  gave  me  the  look  askance, 
And  smiled  and  asked  me  a  word  they  shouldn't. 
They  found  in  me  a  girl  they  couldn't 
Cajole  nor  cozen   with   flattering  speech 
Into  easy  reach. 

Only  my  dancing  has  paid  for  my  roof. 
From  that  easy  path  for  a  dancer's  treading 
Where  many  a  sister's  ways  were  heading, 
There  was   something  within  me   held  aloof. 

62 


So  now  it's  over,  and  I  am  done  for; 
And  though  my  youth  is  still  befriending 
My  years,  they  must  come  to  a  sudden  ending. 
Over's  the  race,  and  the  prize  I've  run  for 
Is  still  ungrasped,  and  I  don't  know  rightly 
What  the  prize  was.     Was  it  worth  the  winning — 
Worth  turning  aside  from  the  pleasant  sinning 
And  rosy  temptations  that  beckoned  nightly? 

No  time  to  answer,  so  fast  I'm  going. 

And  "have  I  a  wish  I'd  be  expressing?" 

Only  a  few.     You'd  never  be  guessing 

Of  the  little  town  by  the  river's  flowing; 

So  quiet  a  town,  that  it  used  to  seem  then 

In  the  childish  days  and  the  ways   I'd  dream  then, 

That   all   too  quiet  were   town  and   street 

For  my  dancing  heart,  and  my  dancing  feet. 

Take  me  back  to  that  quiet  town. 

In  the  little  old  churchyard  lay  me  down. 

Where  the  crosses  are  green  with  moss  overgrowm, 

Where  the  girls  I  knew  and  left,  will  be  singing, 

And  the  queer  old  bell  will  give  a  ringing. 

Then,  when  all's  done,  put  a  little  stone 

With  my  name  and  years.     But  instead  of  text 

Or  word  of  this  world  or  the  next. 

Just  carve  this  message  where  all  may  see — 

"Here  lies  all  that  you  knew  of  me." 

63 


"A    BRITTLE    WORLD" 

(A  Child  Speaks)     - 

I   CAME   from   somewhere,   to  a  brittle  world. 
All  round  about  me  there  are  pretty  things, 
The  kind  I  want  to  feel,  and  learn  about; 
Yet  I   must  never  touch  them  so  they  say. 

"They"  are  the  grown-ups  who  are  just  like  kings, 
Who  have  the  say-so  over  all  my  world 
And  me,  and  touch  whatever  they  may  like. 

I  found  out  long  ago  that  bubbles  break — 

Those  rainbow  things  my  pipe  draws  from  the 
suds; 

Soon  I  found  out  that  gay  balloons  burst  too. 

They  gave  me  splendid  toys  at  Christmas  time. 

I  only  played  with  them  a  little  while; 

Soon  nothing  seemed  to  work  exactly  right. 

And  Mother  said,  ''He's  a  destructive  child," 

The  china  pig  that  held  my  pennies  tight 

Dropped  from  my  hands,  and  smashed  to  little 
bits, 
And   all   my   money  rolled   about   the   floor. 
They  brought  me  a  new  iron  bank,  like  a   safe. 
It's  not  at  all  the  same.     I  loved  that  pig. 

64 


The  cream-jug  too.     I  knocked  it  off  the  tray. 

Nurse    didn't    mind    the    cream,    "There's    plenty 
more," 
She  said,  "But  oh!     Your  mother  will  be  vexed. 

That    cream-jug's    gone!      She    fairly    lo-ved   that 
jug!" 
Does  Mother,  too,  think  it  a  brittle  world?" 
The  garden's  always  full  of  brittle  things. 
I  pick  the  flowers  while  they're  bright  and  gay, 

But  soon  they  wilt  and  droop  and  are  no  good. 

I'm  growing  older  and  would  like  to  play 

With  great,  big  boys  out  in  the  fields  and  street. 
But  am  not  let,  for  /  am  brittle  too. 

My  cousin  Jim  has  smashed  a  collar  bone. 
My  cousin  Ned,  they  tell  me,  broke  his  leg. 

I  broke  a  tooth  myself  the  other  day, 
And  Uncle  Frank,   I  heard  my  mother  tell, 
To  Daddy,  when  she  thought  I  was  asleep, 

Had  his  heart  broken,  by  some  horrid  girl. 

But  worst  of  all.     Just  lately  came  a  time 
When  Mother  asked  a  question,  and  I  fibbed, 

Because   I  was  afraid  she'd  punish  me. 
Then  she  looked  sad,  and  shook  her  head  and  said, 

"My  little  boy  must  never  break  his  word." 
Oh!   it's  a  brittle  world  for   little  boys. 

I   like  it  though;   I  very  often  think 
A  boy.  if  let  alone,  could  have  such  fun. 

65 


EPISODE 

OUT  of  the   clouded  cavern-deeps  -of  sleep 
My  spirit  climbed,  bewildered  and  dismayed. 
My  opening  eyes  saw  my  familiar  room. 
Dimly  each  object  shone  in  a  blurred  light, 
That  entered  where  my  casement  was  flung  wide — 
Part  city  lamp,  and  part  pin-pointed  stars 
Pricked  through  the  taut-drawn  blackness  overhead. 
A  hush  lay  on  the  town.     Low-gabled  roofs 
Icicle-hung,   snow-shrouded,  lay  beneath 
My  window;  then  a  tiny  stretch  of  bare 
Bleak  ground,  abandoned  out-worn  garden-plot; 
Then  higher  roofs  again,  where  people  dwelt 
In  a  grey  by-street — an  uncharted  place. 
So  near  my  neighborhood,  yet  worlds  apart. 

It  was  the  hour  when  mystic  surging  tides 
Of  life  prepare  to  meet  returning  day, 
Reversing  through  the  sleeping  veins  of  man 
Strange  deep  involuntary  waves  of  fear. 
As  though   the   dormant   soul  preferred   to   sleep 
Endlessly,  rather  than  take  up  the  strife. 

There  was  a  sense  of  some  strange  questing  thing — 
A  quivering  expectancy,  a  hush 

Came  pushing  toward  me  through  the  glacial  cold; 
Then  almost  as  if  it  were  in  my  room 

66 


I  heard  her  voice.     It  pierced  from  out  the  cold, 

Stabbing  the   silence  with  its  anguished  notes; 

It  came  despairing,  wailing,  tense,  as  if 

The  words  came,  not  from  body,  but  from  soul, 

Tearing  her  inmost  being  as  they  came. 

Their  utterance  seemed  as  though  her  life  came,  too, 

Leaving  her  body.     "She  is  gone,"  she  cried. 

"She  is  gone  forever.     I   shall   never  see 

Her   more."     Then    silence   pulsing,    cruel-cold. 

I  sprang  from  bed.     I  leaned  out  to  the  night. 

It  was  no  dream.     Somewhere  out  in  that  night 

Behind  one  of  those  windows  shining  there, 

A  bleak  cold  shimmer — Death  had  waved  his  sword. 

One  soul  had  passed,  and  one  was  left  to  mourn. 

So  much  I  knew,  though  stillness  peered  and  lurked. 

Who  was  it  wept?     Mother,  or  sister?     Friend? 

I  crept  back  shivering  to  my  waiting  bed, 

And,    "Woman,    may    God    help    you!"    surged    my 

prayer; 
And,   "Woman!    God   grant   that   you   somehow   feel 
That  I  am  with  you,  O  poor  soul,  bereft!" 
I  stretched  my  hand  out  through  the  empty  black. 
"O  woman,  may  God  let  you   feel   my   hand!" 

Not  till  grey  dawn  stole  the  fast-fading  stars 
Out  of  the  winter  sky,  could   I  win  sleep. 

67 


Later,  when  sunlight  came,  I  searched  the  doors 
Of  the  bleak  by-street.     There  already  hung 
The    shabby   crepe   upon   a    narrow  "door 
Which  opened   to  a   steep-staired   tenement 
Above  a  meat-shop.     My  heart  failed  me.     What 
Apology  my  entrance  might  demand? 
"Dreams,"  "Voices,"  Fancies?"  So  my  courage  failed. 
Her  soul  and  mine  met  somewhere  in  the  dark. 
I  dared  not  risk  a  spoken  word  by  day. 

In   the  long  column   of   La   Presse   that   night, 
Where  cold  type  gives,  in  short,  the  tragedies 
Of  many  firesides,  I  found  only  this, 
That  "Madame  So-and-so  of  such  a  street 
Had  died  before   the   dawn.     The   funeral 
Would  be  at  Such  a  Church,  at  such  a  time." 

Was  it  for  nothing  that  I  woke  that  night? 

Or  to  a  sister  did  I  bridge  some  gulf? 

I  dare  not  guess.     God  knows.     Perhaps  I  did. 


68 


A    RHYMESTER    SPEAKS 

ORIGINALITY?     Critics,   that  is  a  theme 
On    which    I    claim   no   wisdom.     This    I    know 
Only — that  you  and  those  strange  mysteries 
The  editors,  who  stay  securely  hid 
In  office  fastnesses  I  seldom  scale, 
Hint  (or  don't  hint,  but  say  in  plainest  speech) 
That  these  my  songs  are  reminiscences. 
"You've  read  your  Browning."     "Houseman  echoes, 

faint 
Without   his   magic,"  "Dobson,   sans  the   touch 
That  makes  of  Dobson's  verse  an  elfin  thing." 
So  you  all  say,  and  you  are  doubtless  right. 
Faint  echoes  mine,  of  better,  braver  songs. 

And  why  not  echoes?     I  am  rather  pleased, 
Than   grieved  to  know   that   certain  lovely  cries, 
Poets  have  called  to  the  resounding  hills 
Of   memory,   should   faintly    sound   again. 
When  this,  my  voice,  gives  out  its  timid  notes. 

These    hands    and    feet,    these    eyes,    and    ears,    this 

heart — 
Yes,  every  bit  of  the  material  me — 
Is  but  an  echo  of  a  vanished  thing. 
Rocks  ground  to  powder,  in   some  by-gone  age, 

69 


Flowers  long  since  dust,  re-bloomed  and  dust  again 
For  centuries,  bloom  now  in  stranger  wise; 
Chlorophyl  color  of  the  forest  leaf 
Turns  red  to  show  the  sap  of  life  in  me. 

So,  too,  that  immaterial,  that  other  me, 

Mind,  spirit,  soul,  ego,  or  what  you  will, 

Is,  so  I  take  it,  probably  no  more 

Than  soul-spun  dust  of  other  souls  passed  on. 

They  leave  their  gypsy  patteran  behind — 

A  spiritual  trail  of  this  and  that, 

Thoughts,    dreams,    ambitions,    fancies,    hopes    and 

quests; 
These  for  a  while  I  breathe,  and  echo  forth 
As  if  they  were  my  own;  yes — and  I  think 
That  momentarily  they  are  my  own. 
As   is   a  part   of   the   great   atmosphere. 
While  I  am  breathing  it,  my  "very  breath." 

Echoes,  then,  if  you  like;  I  need  not  care. 
Echoes,  O  wise  young  critics,  editors 
Wise  and  discerning.     Echoes,  if  you  will. 
God  rest  you  merry!     I'll  go  echoing  on. 


70 


SOXXETS 


CARPE    DIEM 

IF  this  were  my  last  day  I'm  almost  sure 
I'd  spend  it  working  in  my  garden.     I 
Would  dig  around  my  little  plants  and  try 
To  make  them  happy,  so  they  would  endure 
Long  after  me.     Then  I  would  hide  secure 
Where  my  green  arbor  shades  me  from  the  sky, 
And  watch  how  bird  and  bee  and  butterfly 
Came  hovering  to  every  flowery  lure. 
Then,  while   I  rest,  perhaps  a  friend  or  two. 
Lovers  of  flowers,  would  come,  and  we  would  walk 
About  my  little  garden-paths,  and  talk 
Of  peaceful  times,  when  all  the  world  seemed  true. 
This  may  be  my  last  day,  for  all  I  know. 
What  a  temptation  just  to  spend  it  so! 


7i 


RAVINIA 

THE  rushing  winds  their  prophecies  begin 
Of  autumn,  and   the   harvests   ripening  yellow. 
Each  swaying  tree  bends  whispering  to  its  fellow, 
While  rising  high  above  their  rustling  din, 
A  girl  sings  the   Berceuse,  from  "Jocelyn"; 
And   Steindel's  magic  bow,  upon  the  'cello, 
Mourns  out  an  obligato   full  and  mellow, 
That  pleads  unto  my  heart,  and  enters  in. 
Once,  in  the  days  before  this  clash  of  war, 
This  song  to  me  came  winging  from  afar. 
With  soft   melodious  prophecies  of  pain; 
Today  it  tells  no  tale  of  unfelt  grief, 
But   for   a   moment's    solace   brings   relief 
To   thoughts,   that  wear  the   soul   like   autumn   rain. 


74 


TO    E.    R.    G. 

THIS  year,  I  think  the  coming  of  the  spring 
Will  bring  a  sadder  beauty,  than  I  knew 
In   days  gone  by,  because   this  springtime  you 
Will  not  be  here  to  watch  its  blossoming. 
Across  the   Skokie   Fields  the   birds   will    sing; 
Hid  in  the  grass  the  violet's  dim  blue 
Will  shine  forth  shyly,  but  the  lovely  hue 
This  year,  sweet  tear-wet  memories  must  bring 
Of  days  we  spent  in  the  clear  autumn  weather 
In  happy  talk,  our  pleasant  future  planning. 
Of  rambles  in  the  woods  we  took  together, 
Of  garden  walks,  our  flowery  treasures  scanning. 
Can  you  forget,  when  plucking  asphodel, 
The  simple  mortal  flowers  you  loved  so  well? 


75 


THE    SECOND    WIFE 

T  LIKE  to  think  he  met  her  at  the  gate 

-*■  With  eager  eyes,  and  tense,  expectant  smile. 

He  who  had  left  her  but  a  little  while, 

May  still  have  found  that  little  long  to  wait. 

Did  she  hold  back  a  moment  from  his  kiss? 

Did   she   glance  round,  half  wondering  and  in  fear. 

Saying:     "I  thought  that  I  should  find  her  here, 

Whose  sweet  companionship  your  life  did  miss." 

I  think,  if  so,  he  only  answered,  "Who 

Is  it  you  mean?"     And  she,  half-tremblingly 

Would  answer,  "Ariana.     It  was  she 

You  sometimes  longed  for.     Yes — I  knew — I  knew." 

Then   he — "I   have   forgotten  utterly 

Her  name.     In  Heaven  I  long  for  only  you." 


n 


CANDLES 

HE  faced  the  altar,  spoke  the   Sacred   Name, 
Then  turned.     It  was  a  text  of  Death  he  read. 
"Live  that  ye  meet  it  fearlessly."  he  plead. 
To  prove   Death  but  a  gateway  was  his  aim. 
I  watched  the  altar-candle's  flickering  fiame 
Twist  like  a  living  creature;  riveted 
My  eyes  upon   that   incandescence   fed 
By  patterned  atoms.     "A  mere  touch  could  tame 
That  glow,"  I  thought;  "Or  does  it  but  release? 
Energ}'  is  transformed;   it   does  not   die. 
The  impulse   changes  only,   cannot  cease, 
But  reaches   out  into   Immensity. 
So  we,  so  we  our  earthly  flame  once  done, 
May  reach   free  faring  to  the   farthest   sun!" 


n 


NAPOLEON'S    DEATH-MASK 

I  STOOD  within  the  stately  Invalides, 
Your  nation's  gift,  a  domed  funeral  pile. 
I  left  the  circled  tomb  to  gaze  awhile 
In  that  dim  alcove  where  who  will  may  read 
The  legend  of  your  still  face,  at  their  need. 
'Twas   Pain,  the   ancient   sculptor   tooled   that   smile 
Inscrutable,  chiselled  the  pensive  guile 
On  lips  whose  curves  murmur  to  those  who  heed — 
"I  who  have  stood  upon  Life's  mountain  peak 
With  hands  outstretched  to  clutch  the  treasure  spread 
For  those  who,  fearing  not,  aspire  and  seek, 
Now  cry  to  all  mankind,  'Humble  your  tread'!" 
Ah!  stone-cold  lips,  though  silent,  still  ye  speak 
A  living  message  from  the  living  dead. 


78 


WHAT    YOU    HAVE    WRIT 

WHAT  you  have  writ  is  the  world's  heritage. 
The  world  and  I  may  read,  if  reading  please, 
Gathering  your   thoughts   like    leaves    from   branchy 

trees, 
Or  plucking  flowers  unsullied   from   your  page. 
Between  book-covers  we  make  pilgrimage 
To  lost  Atlantis,  or  the  Pleiades, 
Journeying  in  your  gleaming  Argosies, 
Mere  listless  seekers  for  a  Golden  Age. 
But  from  your  pages  to  the  world  outspread 
I  may  distil  essential  message,  sweet 
As  that  rare  ointment,  once  so  gently  shed 
By  Magdalen  upon  the  Savior's  feet. 
Who  knows?     Some  service  this  poor  handmaid,  too. 
May  render  through  a  grace  she  learned  from  you. 


79 


SONNETINA 
To    M.  F.  C. 

KIND  eyes  that  always  wish  me  well, 
Dear  voice,  whose   cadences  have  lent 
Me  hope  and  sweet  encouragement — 
If  hand  could  write,  if  heart  could  tell 
My  love,   I   think  these  words  would  spell 
In  letters  gold,  page  flower-besprent, 
A  veritable  document 

Of  worth   that   should   your   pride   compel. 
But  if  among  these  songs  you  find 
A  winged  word,  or  if  you  see 
A  gentler  phrase,  a  thought  more  kind 
Than  ordinary  thoughts,  then  say, 
*T  think  she  plagiarized  from  me," 
And  scold  me  gently,  dear,  someday. 


80 


I    BUILT    ME    PINCHBECK    PALACES 

I  BUILT  me  pinchbeck  palaces   of  dream 
From  out  the  past,  nor  recked  how  day  by  day 
Life,  the  great  builder,  reared  across  the  way 
A   nobler   structure,  rising,   wall  and   beam, 
Of  truer  metal.     Better  far  did  seem 
The  fabric  of  my  fancy,  than  what  lay 
So  close,  so  tangible.     I  answered  "Nay" 
To  the  immediate.     Shadows  reigned  supreme. 
Then  on  a  day  came  Time,  with  testing  glass 
And  searching  acid,  and  a  subtle  flame 
That  seared  my  soul,  and  thus  it  came  to  pass 
I  learned,  that  Life  had  only  been  a  name 
Till  then.     I  left  my  bauble  dreams,  and  turned 
To  face  my  future,  tested,  scarred  and  burned. 


81 


IF    THOUGHTS    ARE    NOTHING 

IF  thoughts  are  nothing,  then  there  is  no  fault 
If  mine  to  you  unswervingly  must  wing, 
Drawn  from  my  loneliness  and  suffering. 
No  bars  can  hold,  no  sentinels  can  halt 
Their  timid,   fond,   intangible   assault. 
But  if  a  thought  should  prove  to  be  a  thing 
Actual,  potent,  these  of  mine  need  bring 
No  bitter  myrrh  from  memory's  grey  vault; 
But  rather  like  some  salve,  that  soothes  to  rest 
An  ancient  aching  wound,  like  healing  balm 
Used  in  the  eastern  lands  to  lave  the  head. 
Until  the  traveller  slumbers,  comforted — 
So  may  my  ministering  thoughts,  unguessed, 
Bring  you  a  gentle  respite,  and  a  calm. 


82 


BALLADS,    SONGS    AND    CATCHES 


BALLADE    OF    BASIL 

SHELTERED  away  from  the  noontide  heat, 
Amid  humming  of  bees  and  twitter  of  'start, 
I  lounge  in  the  shade  on  the  arbor  seat, 
And  read  an  old  book  of  "Ye   Simpler's  Arte." 
The  columbines  nod,  and  the  butterflies  dart 
As  I  pore  over  "herbes  that  make  men  whole," 
For  "Basil  hath  properties  never  departe, 
Procureth  a  merrie  and  cheerfulle  soule." 

"Mandragora  brings  slumber  sweete." 
I  read  as  the  leaf-shadows  fall  athwart 
The  yellowing  pages.     "For  ease  compleat 
Ye  cordial  of  marigold  helpeth  ye  harte." 
"Balsame  will  cure  ye  of  passion's  smarte." 
"Mallowe   hath   vertue   that   stayeth   dole." 
But  "Basil  hath  properties  never  departe, 
Procureth  a  merrie  and  cheerfulle  soule." 

"Melancholic   ye  well  may  treate 

With  thyme,  it  will  ward  off  ye  humours  swarte." 

"Tansy  keepeth  ye  temper   sweete." 

"Sorrel  cooles  bloode  through  its  flavour  tarte." 

"Balme  is  the  unguent  if  burn  hath  scartte 

Ye  flesh  (such  as  cometh  from  brande  or  coale)." 

But  "Basil  hath  properties  never  departe, 

Procureth  a  merrie  and  cheerfulle  soule." 

85 


Prince  in  your  palace,  or  down  in  the  mart, 
On  throne  of  gold,  or  in  tumbril  cart, 
Basil's  your  herb,  come  tide,  come  shoal — 
"Procureth   a   merrie   and   cheerfulle   soule," 


86 


BALLADE    OF    OLD    TALES 

STORIES  whose  magic  never  can   fade, 
Heroes  whose  glories  must  wax,  not  wane, 
Lion-heart   Richard,   never   gainsaid, 
Arthur  the  king  without  fault  or  stain, 
Roderiguez,  the   Cid  of  Spain, 
Roland,  the  noble  Olivier, 

Whose  horn   could  summon  great   Charlemagne — 
What  better  tales  can  you  read  today? 

Ladies   of  olden   romance,  the   Maid 
Of  Orleans,  dying  in  fiery  pain, 
Katherine   Douglas,   the   unafraid. 
Noble   Sir   Lancelot's   white   Elaine, 
Patient  Griselda  who  wouldn't  complain, 
Black  Medea,  Morgan  le  Fay, 
Iphigenia,  who  pleaded  in  vain — 
What  better  tales  can  you  read  today? 

Islands,  where  golden  young  dreams  were  made, 
Lost  Atlantis   sunk  deep  in  the  main, 
The  isle  where  Paul  and  Virginia  played. 
The  island  of  Sappho's  undying  strain, 
Crusoe's  island — or  that  one  again 
Where    the    Swiss    Family    dwelt    'neath    the    palm- 
tree's  sway, 

87 


The  isle  where  Circe  wove  witchery's  chain- 
What  better  tales  can  j^ou  read  today? 

Laddies,  if  these  old  tales  you  disdain, 
You've  much  to  lose,  and  little  to  gain. 
Laughing  lasses,   tell  me   I   pra}^ 
What  better  tales  can  you  read  today? 


88 


ET    EGO    IN    RIVERSIDE    VIXI 

I  TOO  dwelt  there,  from  Riverside  have  sprung, 
Before  its  present  celebrated  age 
When   Lardner,  doughty,  black-eyed  Niebelung, 
Plays  it  up  daily  on  the  sporting  page. 
Those   were   the   days   more   simple  and   more   sage. 
We  sought  not  notoriety's  long  ear. 
Alore  homely  matters  did  our  lives  engage; — 
Where's  the  old  Riverside  of  yesteryear? 

Keen  winter  sports  with  skates  or  slide  or  pung, 
Spring  joys  with  Violet-island  pilgrimage; 
In  Indian  Garden  summer  songs  we  sung, 
With  none  but  birds  to  give  us  espionage; 
Through  autumn  copse  with  hazel-nuts  for  wage 
We  ranged  in  careless  youth,  enchanted,  dear, 
By  woods  beloved  of  faery  and  mage; — 
Where's  the  old  Riverside  of  yesteryear? 

Our  names  were  not  on  Sunday's  sheet  outflung; 
We  had  no  social  yearnings  to  assuage 
By  climbing  tottering  ladders  rung  on  rung, 
And  printed  portraits  filled  our  souls  with  rage. 
Humble  suburban  squirrels  in  our  cage 
Of  simple  round  of  routine  year  by  year 
We  ran,  nor  deemed  such  life  a  hermitage. 
Where's  the  old  Riverside  of  yesteryear? 

89 


Whither,  O  tall  and  multi-gifted  Ring, 
Has  vanished  that  dear  place  of  which  I  sing? 
Into  what  limbo,  shadow-hung  and  drear, 
Has  gone  the  Riverside  of  yesteryear? 


90 


VANISHED    YOUTH 

WHETHER  I'm   shopping  for   hat   or   hose, 
Outerwear,   underwear,   pins   or   netting, 
Whether  I  ask  for  cerise  or  rose, 
Whether  it's  brooms  or  tin  pans  I'm  getting. 
Whether  I'm  rushing  to  sales,  or  letting 
Other  folks  catch  all  the  bargains  early, 
This  is  the  fact  I  find  upsetting: — 
All  of  the  salesladies  call  me  "Girlie." 

Into  the  faraway  long  agos 

Days  of  my  girlhood  have  flown,  past  fretting. 

Gone  are  the  raptures  of  balls  and  beaux; 

Ribbons  and  folderols  and   coquetting 

Fled  to  the  limbo  of  far  forgetting. 

Along  with  blushes  and  ringlets  curly. 

Yet  I  feel  skittish  and  pirouetting: — 

All  of  the  salesladies  call  me  "Girlie." 

Mirrors  discourage  me,  goodness  knows. 
Hint  of  the  sere,  and  of  sunlight  setting; 
Twinges  rheumatic  oft  cause  me  woes. 
White  threads  gleam  in  my  coiffure's  jetting. 
Yet  when  discouragement's  tears  are  wetting 
My  cheek,  and  my  temper  feels  grim  and  surly, 
I  soon  cheer  up,  and  I  cease  from  fretting: — 
All  of  the  salesladies  call  me  "Girlie." 

91 


Dear  Prince  Charming,  I  can't  help  betting 
On  fortune's  chances,  so  strange  and  whirly. 
I'm  not  yet  past  the  age  of  petting: — 
All  of  the  salesladies  call  me  "Girlie." 


92 


"BUNGAROO"* 

WHEN  over-fatigued  and  weary  enough 
To  drop,  then  I  sometimes  try  to  shirk 
My  duty,  and  browse  in  some  high-brow  stuff, 
Forgetting  my  business  and  Red   Cross  work. 
Then  I  pick  up,  with  self-conscious  smirk, 
That  erudite  volume.  The  EngHsh  Review; 
But  today  I  am  knifed  with  this  verbal  dirk— 
"Write  for  that  plopp-eyed  bungaroo!" 

What  is  its  meaning,   that  terrible  phrase? 

Offspring  of  Jepson's  mental  murk? 

I  puzzle  and  puzzle  with  wits  adaze. 

Is  it  Bohemian,  Slav  or  Turk? 

Does   secret  cipher   significance   lurk 

Where  those  strange  symbols  flash  from  the  blue? 

Is  it  Welsh  or  Sinn  Fein,  or  some  Scottish  quirk— 

"Write  for  that  plopp-eyed  bungaroo." 

When  he  wrote  "that  fat-headed  western  ruck," 
I  wonder  if  Edgar  winked  and  smiled. 
And  stuck  his  tongue  in  his  cheek  like  Puck, 
Saying:    "This  should  make  'em  all  jolly  well  riledl" 
When  wells  of  such  English  undefiled 
Spring  pure  from  covers  of  Prussian  hue, 

"^   Edgar  Jepson.  in  the  English  Review,  calls  The 
Middle   Westerner   "that   plopp-eyed   bungaroo. 

93 


Should  not  new  vocabularies  be  compiled? 
"Write  for  that  plopp-eyed  bungaroo." 

O  prints  of  England!     O  Oxford  Die! 
We  want  to  be  wise  and  autocthonic. 
But  we  can't  to  our  nobler  selves  be  true 
Till  we  "write  for  that  plopp-eyed  bungaroo." 


94 


A    BALLADIST    BOASTETH 

DARING  metrist,  who  weaves  today 
A  mystic,  unmeasured,  nebulous   strand 
Out  of  your  fancy,  hear  what  I  say! 
I   write   what   present   folk   understand — 
Simple   songs   of  a  nearby  land. 
Humble  emotions,  in  no  new  blends. 
Well-worn  similes,  nothing  grand — 
These   are  liked  by  my   mother's  friends. 

You  who  are  writing,  as  well  you  may, 
For  the   eyes  of  tomorrow,   tomorrow's   hand 
May  cherish  your  volumes,  and  feel  their  sway; 
I  write  what  present  folk  understand. 
When  verses  of  mine  shall  be  as  the  sand 
Of  the  desert,  blown  back  to  oblivion's  ends. 
Yours  may  be  reigning  in  high  command — 
These  are  liked  by  my  mother's  friends. 

Friends,  whose  temples  are  touched  with  gray — 
Whom  Experience  crowned  with  a  silver  band — 
Tell  me  they  cherish  my  roundelay. 
I  write  what  present  folk  understand. 
For  far  horizons  your  ships  are  planned; 
My   fleet   for   hitherward   islands   trends. 
Your  verse  by  the  ages  may  be  scanned — 
These  are  liked  by  my  mother's  friends. 

95 


Brilliant  young   futurists,  imagists   grand, 
I  write  what  present  folk  understand, 
"My  work's  out-dated?"     Well,  thaf  depends- 
These  are  liked  by  my  mother's  friends. 


96 


ECHO 

LONG  in  this  valley  she  dwelt, 
Echo,  the  lovely,  the  musical; 
Echo  the  hidden,  the  laughing  singer  unseen, 
Merrily  calling  the  bird-notes, 
Tenderly  mocking  the  wind's  cries. 
Whispering  back   laughter   of  leaves   to   the   aspens 
and  willows. 

Now  she  is  weeping,  is  weeping,  poor   Echo,  faint- 
hearted. 
Weeping  and  hidden  she  mourns  over  men  and  their 
sorrows; 
Unsleeping    and    chidden    by    clamors    of    grief 
never-ending; 
Heart-tearing  moans  of  the   stricken, 
Undertones  vanquished  and  bitter 

Of  men  overcome  by  hard  taskmasters. 
Women  whose  lives  are  but  burden. 

All  of  these  sounds  inharmonious 

And  jangling,  she  draws  to  her  heart. 
Then  hurls  them  forth,  doubling,  repeating, 

Till  the  heavens  resound  to  their  troubling. 
The  sweetest  of  all  of  her  songs 

Is   the   bitterest,   bitterest. 
The  cry  of  young  children  unsmiling. 

Who  know  neither  sunshine,  nor  laughter. 

97 


Echo,  shrink  back  from  the  contaminating 

Touch  of  the  town,  with  its  noises  defiling. 

You  who  once  sang  like  the  spirit  of  spri^ig, 
Your  voice  is  a  troubling. 

Forget  us,  O  Echo;  flee  back 

To  the  great  distant  hills  with  their  vastnesses. 

Hide  you  there  pure; 

Come  not  to  us, 

Till  the  sweet  day  dawn  when  mankind  grown  clean 
again 

Dares   call   you   forth    from   those   dim   distant   fast- 
nesses, 

In  voices  by  service  made  true  and  serene  again. 

Singing— 

"We  lift  up  free  eyes 

Unabashed  to  the  sun. 
Untrammelled  and  joyful 

We  call  to  thee,  call  to  thee. 
Echo,  come  give  again  laughter  of  children, 

Sighs    of    young    lovers,    and    murmurings    of 
mothers, 
Sweep  of  clean  winds,  and  the  note  of  the  waters, 
And  stout  cries  of  men  o'ercoming  the  elements. 
Echo  return,  Echo  return!" 


98 


THE    TWO    SONGS 

I  SING  thee  a  song  with  my  lips. 
Thou  criest:     "Sing  again,  sing  again 
That  song,   for   I   love   thy   sweet  singing." 

There's  a  song  in  my  heart  all  the  while 
Lies  silent  and  dumb  and  unsung. 
Wouldst    thou    cry,    "Sing   again,    sing   again," 
If  I  sang  what  is  hid  in  my  heart? 

Nay.     'Tis   only  the   flower   we   love — 
The  color  and  beauty  and  glow. 
Who  cares  for  the  roots  in  the  dark. 
That  labor  to  bring  forth  that  flower? 

'Tis  the  joy  and  the  lilt  of  my  song, 
That  thou  and  the  world  long  to  hear; 
The  song  that  is  hid  in  my  heart 
Is  a  song  rooted  deep  in  despair. 


99 


SONG 

WHEN    that    I    was    young, 
Merry  went  my  ways; 
Carelessly  I  sung, 
Prodigal  of  days. 

Now  that  I  am  old, 
A  silent  miser  I, 
Clutching  the   moments    gold 
As  they  swiftly  fly. 


100 


IF    I    WERE    SPOILER    OF    THE    SKIES 

I'D   stretch  my  fingers  out  to   seize 
The   fringes  of  the  Pleiades. 
And  weave  them  into   tapestries 

Of  color  and  of  grace. 
A  bunch  of  little  stars  I'd  take 
And   fling  them  down   into   the   lake. 
To  watch  the  ripples  tear  and  break 
Their  spangles  into  lace. 

I'd  rip  the  moon  out  from  the  skies, 
Cut  it  in  twain  and  cornerwise, 
And  rub  the  pieces  in  my  eyes 

To  open  up  my  sight, 
Till   dreams   of  earth   should   shine   as   plain 
As  meadow  flowers  after  rain, 
And  real  things  fade  away  again 

Like  mists  into  the  night. 

And  last  of  my  celestial  fun. 

I'd  stretch  my  hand  out  for  the  sun, 

And  rip  its  petals  one  by  one 

To  where  its  fire  heart  lies; 
I'd   cup   the  flame,  and  lift  it  high 
Until  it  burst  in  melody. 
All  this  I'd  do  if  only  I 

Where  spoiler  of  the  skies. 

101 


AT    THE    LOOM 

I'LL  have   no   traffic   with    the    stars,   they   are    not 
good   for  me; 
I  must  content  myself,  men  say,  with  earth  and  wind 

and   sea. 
For  the  black  sky,  the  scattered  stars,  are  filled  with 
mystery. 

I  roamed  the  fields  a  summer's  night,  under  a  fad- 
ing moon; 

I  plucked  white  daisies  for  a  wreath,  and  happily 
did   croon 

A  little  song  that  I  had  made,  set  to  a  simple  tune. 


"This  daisy's  from  the  girdle  of  Andromeda,  the  fair; 
And  here's  a  misty  chaplet  flung  from  Berenice's  hair. 
These  fiowers  I  tuck  behind  my  ears  are  Vega  and 
Altair." 

But   one   came   by   with   eyes   of  fear,   and   tore   my 

starry   hood, 
And  said  I  must  not  sing  my  song  of  stars,  it  was 

not  good 
For   me.     I    think  he   heard   my   song,   but   had   not 

understood. 

102 


I 


And  so  I  sit  here  at  my  loom  and  weave  the  shuttle 

through 
The  woollen  threads  as  silently  as  all  the  others  do — 
They    do    not    know    Aldebaran    shines    through    the 

homespun  blue. 


SONG 

HUSHED    is   the   cricket's   song. 
The  rustling  grasses  cease 
Their  murmuring  idle  talk, 

And  the  aspens  are  at  peace; 
For  a  passing  bird  has  told 

Of  my  coming,  O  my  sweet! 
And  all  of  Nature,  listening,  waits 
The  music  of  thy  feet. 


103 


DEWDROP 

DEWDROP   on   the   spray, 
Timid  child  of  morn, 
What  thy  mission,  say. 
Trembling   on   the   thorn? 

"Mine  a  mission  blest, 
For  a  little  space 
In  my  crystal  breast 
Apollo  sees  his  face." 


SONG 

WHEN  Life  has  measured  out  those  griefs, 
Whose  weight  no  mortal  may  decline, 
I'll  bear  my  own  as  best  I  may, 
Dear  Love,  and  help  bear  thine. 

When  Life  metes  out  those  flowers  of  joy, 
Whose  garlands  deck  our  earthly  shrine; 
When  all  thy  share  are  faded,  worn, 
Take   mine,  dear   Love,  take  mine. 


104 


STRONGHOLD 

I'VE  a  little   fortress, 
A  refuge  all  my  own, 
Stronger    than    the    strong    oak, 
Mightier  than   stone, 
Frailer  than  a  moth's  wing. 
Dimmer  than  the  dawn. 
Slighter  than  the  poplar  down 
Or  cobweb  on  the  lawn. 

In   that   secret   fortress — 
Hidden  soul  of  me — 
Tapestried  with  beauty, 
Floored  with  memory. 
I  withdraw  in  silence, 
Let  the  portcullis   fall; 
Then  in  silence  brood  I 
Peaceful,  o'er  my  all. 

Birdsong  after  sunset. 
Bird  before  the  morn. 
Children's  song  and  laughter, 
(Children  never  born) 
These  make  up  my  music 
In  that  hidden  goal; 
These  break  the  pure  silence 
In  the  fortress  of  my  soul. 

105 


TO    EVELYN 

{On  her  ^vedding-day) 

YOU  cannot  see   my  offering, 
Too  frail  and  pale  it  gleams. 
I  bring  to  you  a  fragile  thing, 
A  tiny  ship  of  dreams. 

But  though  the  vessel's  very  small, 

Its  cargo,  so  I'm  told, 
Will  hold  the  hopes  and  dreams  of  all 

This  wondrous   glittering  world. 

And  though  Time's  tempests  beat  and  blow, 

And  Trouble's  billows   roar. 
Safe,  safe  your  ship  of  dreams  shall  go 

With  happiness  as  store. 

So  long  as  on  its  golden  deck 

Two  steadfast  lovers  stand. 
Your  ship  of  dreams   shall  never  wreck, 

But  safely  come  to  land. 


106 


CHRISTMAS    IN    THE    SLUMS 

THEY   sang  of  myrrh   and   frankincense, 
And  far-off  Eastern  things, 
Of  shepherds  dreaming  on  the  hills, 
Of  angels  and  of  kings. 

They  sang,  those  children  of  the  slums, 
With  voices   glad  and  strong; 

With   wistful   smiles    and    wondering   hearts 
They  sang  their  Christmas  song. 

And  though  they  saw  no  angels  come 
Down  from  the  heaven  above, 

Yet  every  child  felt  reverence, 
And  every  child  felt  love. 

And  a  soft  light,  not  of  this  earth. 

Shone  on  them  from  afar — 
For  each  knew  what  a  baby  was — 

Each  child  had  seen  a  star! 


107 


MY    SONGS 

I  SANG  my  songs,  my  songs, 
Unhampered  of  joy  or  pain, 
Till  you  bound  me   fast  with  your  love 
As  with  a  mighty  chain. 

And  I  fell  on  silence  then. 

For  my  heart  swelled  too  full  for  speech, 
And  who  could  sing  her  songs, 

When  words  were  out  of  her  reach? 

You  have  set  me  free  of  your  love; 

You  have  left  me  bond  to  pain. 
The  light  has  gone  out  of  the  heavens — 

But  I  sing  again,  again. 


108 


MEMORIES 

OH!   I'm  back  in  the  busy  city 
With   its  murky  smoke,  and  grime, 
But  my  heart  is  afar 
Where  the  memories  are, 
Of  another  place,  and  time. 

Sunset  on  the  far  Pacific 

While  our  boat  sweeps  through  the  blue, 

And  the  white  gulls  dip 

In  the  wake  of  the  ship. 
And  I  think  of  you,  of  you. 

The   fair   green   hills   of  the   mainland 
Gleam  soft  in  the  evening  haze; 

And   the   islands   seem 

Like  a  land  in  a  dream, 
As   they   fade  away  from  my   gaze. 

Oh!  Life's  work-a-day  hurry,  and  worry 
Depart  from  me,  now  and  then, 

When  the  ocean's  blue 

And  the  thought  of  you 
Come  back  to  my  heart  again. 


109 


THE    TIPTOE    DREAM 

CAME   a  little   tiptoe   dream 
Knocking  at  my   door. 
"Away,"  I   cried,   "You   troublous   elf; 
I  do  not  need  you  more." 

But  after  while  I  changed  my  mind. 
And  opened  wide  the  door. 

"Come  back,  you  little  tiptoe  dream!" 
But  oh!  it  comes  no  more. 


IMPORTANCE 

'TT^HE  mosses  remarked  to  the  old  oak  tree, 
-L     "My,  you'd  be   cold   if  it  wasn't  for  me." 
The  vine  that  clung  to  its  branches  tall 
Said,  "Friend,  without  me  you  would  certainly  fall!" 

Now  the  wind  stripped  the  tree  of  its  viny  sheath, 
And  the  moss  was  used  for  a  Christmas  wreath; 
But  the  oak  will  stand  till  the  century  ends 
Without  the  aid  of  its  bragging  friends. 

Do  you  feel  important  sometimes?     I  do. 

But  the  World  can  get  on  without  me,  or  you. 

110 


I    AM    THY    LOVER,    LIFE 

AH!  Life,  I  am  thy  lover.     Not  as  those 
Who  loving,  and  beloved  of  thee  again, 
Cherish  thee  like  some  wonder-blossoming  rose, 
Whose  petal   promise   hourly   doth   disclose 
Where  hidden  gold-heart  beauty  long  has  lain. 

Nay  Life,  nor  do  I  love  as  one  who  knows 
Only  love's  questing,  quivering  minor  strain, 
Fraught  with  grief-filled  denials,  or  the  woes 
Of  cold  indifferent  touch,   or  cruel  blows 
That  stab   the   spirit,  leave  the   ardor   slain. 

I  am  thy  lover.  Life,  as  one  who  fain 

Of  no  reward,   steps   forth  triumphant,   goes 

Marching   and   singing  through   the   wind   and   rain. 

Filled  with  deep  courage  and  a  high  disdain 

For  those  whom  fear  surmounts  and  overthrows. 

For  thine  own  essence.  Life,  insurgent  flows 
A  subtle,  singing  ichor  through  each  vein. 
Enhancing  joy,  and  anodyne  to  pain. 
Though  vistas  of  the  years  may  interpose, 
Or  this  same  hour  my  book  of  days  may  close. 
What   matter?     I   have   lived,   shall   live   again. 


Ill 


WESTPORT    CHANTY 

ROW  from  the  wharf  with  its  mo&Idering  shipping, 
Past  the  old  town  with  its  roofs  shingled  grey, 
Out  to  the  "Windflower,"  she's  riding  and  dipping 
Her  white  bow  to  drink  of  the  blue-breasted  bay. 

Make  fast  the  dory,  and  heave  up  the  anchor. 
Call  to  the  helmsman  to  steer  us  due  south, 
Away  from  the  town  with  its  care  and  its  rancor, 
Out  to  the  beryl-green  harbor  mouth. 

Beckoning  gulls  and  the  salt  air  that's  cleaving 

The  soul  like  a  breath  from  eternity 

Call  us  to  beauty  beyond  all  believing, 

So  away  for  the  islands,  and  ho!  for  the  sea. 


112 


SONG    IX    THE    WEST 

WEST,  turn  you  West,  while  the  evening  is  falling, 
West,  where  a  voice   through   the   twilight   is 
calling, 
Over  the  Ridge,  down  the  soft  slope  that  follows. 
Out  to  the  fields  with  their  grass-hidden  hollows. 

W^est,  where  the  day's  crimson  glory  still  lingers, 
West,  where  the  sun  reaches  long  gleaming  fingers, 
Raying  and  aureate,  reaching  and   cleaving, 
Straight    through    the    clouds    with    their    amethyst 
weaving. 

West,  turn  you  West,  till  the  mists  raise  their  vapors. 
West  till  the  first  stars  are  lighting  their  tapers. 
Past    where    the    marsh-grasses    swing    their    green 

billows, 
Then  you  will  come  to  an  island  of  willows. 

Hid  in  an  elm,  he  is  warbling  his  query, 
Singing  his  night  song,  the  small  hidden  veery — 
Voicing  all  Nature  in  sweet  invocation, 
A  magical  outcry  of  pure  adoration. 


113 


THE    CITY 

OUT    from   the    great    seaward    marshes    the    salt 
wind  came  crying, 
Questioning  over  the  meadows,  and  up  to  the  hills 

at  the  west, 
While  ever  the  voice  of  the  city  gave  answer,  replying 
Proudly,  "O  wind,  cease  your  sighing 
And  tell  us  your  quest." 
Then  the  wind  answered,  "O  city,  whose  amplitude 

fills 
The  sweeps  of  the  flat-lands,  and  slopes  of  the  lovely 

cool  hills, 
What  of  your  stewardship,  city,  give  answer  and  tell 
Of  the  people  who  dwell 
Sheltered  within   your  wide   border? 
Say,  is  your  house  set  in  order?" 
Then   the   proud   city   made   answer,   "O   wind,   wild 

and  strange. 
What  do  you  see  as  you  range 
Over  our  roofs,  and  our  spires 
Reaching  like  splendid  desires 
Up  to  the  sun?" 
The  wind  answered  sternly,  "O  ye  who  have  builded 

so  fair. 
Have  a  care, 
That  ye  give  to  your  citizens  sunlight  and  freedom 

and  air. 

114 


Look  at   your   city,   and    answer,   here   by    her   grey 

river  flowing, 
Through  all  the  years  of  her  growing, 
What  has  she  done? 

Is  there  no  factory  where,  shut  away  from  the  sun 
Bewildered  young  children  work,  pining  for  air  and 

for  fun? 
Is    there    no    groan    of    the    man    overburdened,    nor 

murmur  of  him 
Who  works  in  the  dim, 
Ill-lighted,  airless  bleak  room. 
Despairing  and  gloom-haunted,  soul  all  abrim 
With  revolt,  and  his  spirit  a-frown? 
What  of  the  men  on  the  ships, 
Crowding  the  weed-darkened  slips. 
The  great  cargoes  loading,  unloading. 
With  fear  as  a  taskmaster  goading? 
When  the  pale  star  of  the  evening  looks  down 
Over  the  roofs  of  the  town, 
What  meets  her  luminous  glances. 
As  traitorous  darkness  advances? 
Has  she  not  seen 
Vice,  painted  of  mien 
Lurking,  black  smirking. 

Where  youth  with  sweet  innocence  dances?" 
Then  the  city:  "O  wind,  you  have  spoken, 
And  the  blame  of  our  shame  you  have  told; 

115 


And  the  pride  of  our  years  has  been  broken 

At  the  tale  of  these  wrongs  that  are  old. 

Join  wind,  with  the  sun,  earth  and  sky, 

To  work  us  an  alchemy. 

Sweep  through  our  bodies  and  souls  until  clean 

As  the  rain,  and  with  hope  springing  green 

As  the  grass  on  our  country  side, 

We  may  boast  of  our  upright  laws,  and  our  men  of 

splendid   pride; 
Till  we  cleave  to  one  another, 
And  own  every  man  our  brother; 
Till  we  find  our  bread  bitter  when  knowing 
Our  fellow  is  hungry  going." 
Then  the  wind:     *T  will  sweep  like  a  spirit 
Of  cleansing  fire  over  your  city. 
My  scourging  might,  will  ye  not  fear  it? 
I  will  show  ye  no  pity! 
Not    in    her   numbers    of   men,   nor   the    size    of   her 

treasure 
Is  the  great  city's  measure. 
It  is  freedom  of  spirit,  the  loyal  endeavor 
That  starts 

In  each  of  her  citizen'si  hearts. 
Ready  to  pledge  her  a  service  devoted  forever; 
When  judgments  of  fairness  unerring 
Bring  return  of  true  service  in  men  undemurring, 
Unrestrained  by  the  old  bleak  compulsion 

116 


Of  force  which  made  grief  and  revulsion; 

When  true  tasks  shall  never  be  wanting; 

When  men  go  to  labor  with  chanting; 

When  in  hours  when  their  life-toil  is  over 

The  aged  may  sit  in  the  sun, 

While  the  children   scamper  and  run 

Unmolested  through  grass  white  with  clover; 

Children,  free-limbed,  with  merry  young  faces, 

At  play  in  the  open  green   spaces; 

Joyous  young  sisters  and  brothers, 

And   babies   all   rosily   nourished,   and   happy   young 

mothers — 
A  people  united  in  service,  forgetful  of  ancient  races 
Where    cruel    injustice    and    greed    stalked    in    the 

market-places." 
"Wind  of  the  sea."  cried  the  city,  "Stir  all  my  people 

with  fire 
For  service  to  God,  and  to  home  and  to  all  of  this 

land! 
The  ideals  of  our  fathers  must  stand; 
But  united  to  them,  shall  arise  from  the  pyre 
Of  old  orders  abandoned  and  shames  cast  away, 
A  flare  as  of  day, 
New  lit  by  man's  hand  at  the  breath  of  our  God's 

own  desire. 
Cease  not  to  stir  in  our  hearts  till  we  cast  away  dross 
Of  unworthy  ambitions,  and  useless  traditions, 

117 


Acknowledging  gain   in   the   loss; 

Till  over  this  city  there  stands  that  temple  not  made 

with   hands, 
Till    flowering    in    beauty    upstarts    the    blossom    of 

white  in  our  hearts 
That  blooms  in  the  light  of  the  cross. 
Not   the   cross  of  the   ancient   belief,   sacrificial   sad 

emblem  of  grief, 
Not    the    cross   of   today,    when    we    grope   through 

mists  of  gray  doubt  unto  hope, 
But  the  symbol  triumphant  upborne,  of  fulfillment  in 

that  future  morn, 
When  the  spirit  of  love  all  trancendent,  eternal 
Shall  cast  out  all  hatred  and  scorn. 


118 


I    DREAMT    I    SAW    MY    LAUGHING    LOVE 

I  DREAMT  I  say  my  laughing  Love, 
She  stood  knee  deep  in  flowers; 
She  stretched  her  careless  hands  above, 
And   plucked   them   through   the    hours. 
Into  a  swiftly  running  brook 
She  tossed  them,  bruised  and  torn. 
Had  those  proud  eyes  but  deigned  to  look, 
A  friend's   name  each   had  worn. 

I  dreamt  I  saw  my  Love  again, 

She  trod  a  barren  lea; 

Sorrow  had  marked  her  brow,  and  pain; 

Her  tears   fell  ceaselessly. 

One  single  flower  she  gathered  close, 

And  bitterly  she   cried. 

'Twas  a  forgotten,   faded  rose — 

It's  sharp  thorn  pierced  her  side. 


119 


A    MESSAGE 

THE  snow  lies  on  the  elm-tree  boughs, 
To  roof  and  spire  the  hoar-frost  clings, 
But   Senor   Robin,   from  the   south. 
Beneath  my  window  sings,  and  sings: — 

"Away  with  winter  and  its  care! 
I   sing  the  cowslips  budding  yellow; 
I  sing  glad  hearts  and  April  air. 
Pray  am  I  not  a  welcome  fellow?" 

Brave  little  friend,  though  days  are  cold, 
And  hungry  cats  are   darkly  lurking. 
Your   song   goes   ringing,   joyous,   bold — 
"We  birds  sing  on,  and   do   no   shirking." 

My  heart  too  long  to  winter's  chills 
And  to  past  grief-pangs  has  been   clinging; 
I'll  think  of  dancing  daffodils. 
And  join  the  robin  in  his  singing. 


120 


SISTERS 

OXE  sits  and   sews  in  a  sheltered  room, 
At  the  close  of  a  peaceful   day. 
The   breezes  waft   scent   from  the   lilac   bloom, 
And  a  wood-thrush  sings  its  lay; 

But  her  mad  wnld  thoughts  stretch  wide  their  wings 
To  f{y  over  hill  and  vale, 

And,  "Oh  !  could  I  follow  my  love,"  she  sings, 
"On  the  far-off  gypsy  trail." 

The  other  is  far  in   a  rough  wild   camp, 

Where  the  evening  tent-fire  gleams. 

The  wind  is  bleak  and  the  mists  rise  damp, 

And  a  distant  eagle  screams. 

She  has   followed  her   love  where   the   trail   is   long; 

She  has  shared  his  name  and  fate, 

But.  "Oh!  could  I  see"  so  runs  her  song, 

"The  old  home-garden  gate!" 


121 


GUDRUN 

GUDRUN  sits  spinning  in  quiet  bower; 
(Sing  low  my  wheel) 
A  knight  rides  by  her  father's  tower, 

(Loud  and  strong  is  the  song  of  the  sword.) 

Gudrun  looks  out  from  her  casement  high; 

(Sing  low  my  w^heel) 
She  sees  the  knight  go  riding  by. 

(Loud  and  strong  is  the  song  of  the  sword.) 

Her  hearts  goes  with  him  to  the  fray, 

(Sing  low  my  wheel) 
But  oh!   he  never   comes  back  that  way. 

(Loud  and  strong  is  the  song  of  the  sword.) 

When  the  moon  lights  the  battle-plain, 

(Sing  low  my  wheel) 
The  proud  knight  lies  among  the  slain. 

(Loud  and  strong  is  the  song  of  the  sword.) 


122 


HER    SOXXET 
(Double  Triolet) 

SHE  labored  with   ink  and  with  brain 
At  a   thing  which   she   meant   for   a   sonnet. 
The  editor's  dictum  gave  pain, 

For  she'd  labored  with  ink  and  with  brain, 
"My  critical  sense  it  would  strain 

If  I  dared  to  pass  favorably  on  it." 
She  had  labored  with  ink  and  with  brain 

At  a  thing  she  had  meant  for  a  sonnet. 

With  lace  and  pink  roses  outspread 

Her  fingers  had  fashioned  a  bonnet. 
She  placed  it  upon  her  dark  head. 

With  lace  and  pink  roses  outspread. 
What  d'ye  think  that  the  editor  said, 

When   he   chanced   to   behold   her   thus   don   it? 
"With  lace  and  pink  roses  outspread 

Your  fingers  have  fashioned  a— SONNET!" 


123 


SONNET 

(On  the  difficulties  of  writing  a  sonnet  at  home) 

COME  thoughts,  for  you  must  muster  on  parade, 
A  sonnet  on  the  rain,  my  fancy  orders. 
(We'll  have  to  sell  the  house  or  take  in  boarders 
If  things  keep  soaring  skyward,  I'm  afraid.) 
The  rain — I'll  make  it  spatter  in  a  glade 
Where  larches  tall  o'er  spreading  flowers  are  warders. 
(The  old  provision  dealers  are  such  hoarders; 
It's  all  their  fault  that  prices  high  have  stayed.) 
The  rain,  down-dropping  in  a  scented  wood. 
(That  recipe  for  scrapple  sounded  good.) 
The  rain,  it  rings  with  elfin  laughter  running. 
(This  pattern  for  my  new  frock  will  be  stunning.) 
The  rain,  where  breezes  sing  and  zephyrs  laugh. 
(Our  oil  stock  cut  its  dividends  in  half!) 


124 


THE    POET 

HE  sat  where  mighty   trees  outspread, 
Through  dew  and  sun,  the  whole  daj-  long, 
Threading  upon  a  silver  thread 

The  little  purple  beads  of  song. 

Rude  men  in  passing  mocked  his  task, 
And  laughed   at  all  his  simple   pains; 
They  would  not  linger  lest  he  ask 

For  largesse  from  their  ample   gains. 

The  task  grew  dull,  his  hands  a-cold. 

Now,  mourning  for  tlieir  poet  dead, 
The  clamoring  pilgrims  buy  for  gold 

Those  beads   strung  on  a   silver  thread. 


125 


COUNTING    SHEEP 

A  Bedtime  Drama 

CHARACTERS: 

A  Mother    (who   has   refused   to   rock   her  little  boy   to 
sleep) 

A  Little  Boy 

BOY:     O   Mother,  my  dear,  my  eyes  are  wide, 
I  never  can  go  sleep. 
Mother:     Try  counting  waves  coming  in  with  the  tide. 

Or  a  flock  of  your  Grand-dad's  sheep. 
Boy:     I'll  count  the  sheep  climbing  over  a  wall. 

But  I  wish  you'd  rock  me  instead. 
Mother:     No,  no.     That  never  would  do  at  all; 
Try  to  sleep,  little  curly  head. 

(The   mother  leaves   him,   but  listens  through   a  crack 
in  the  door,  and  this  is  what  she  hears.) 

Boy:     I'll  play  I'm  out  in  the  pasture  wide 

Where  the  wall's  mos'  hid  in   clover. 
The  sheep  are  all  on  the  other  side, 

An'  I'll  call,  so  they'll  climb  over. 
I'm  sure  I  remember  every  one 

That  I  saw  in  the  field  last  summer. 
This  game  is  going  to  be  heaps  of  fun. 

Oh,  here   is   the   firstest  comer! 

126 


It's   that  black-faced   sheep   with  the   crooked   smile, 

Who  sounds  so  sad  when  she's  bleating. 
I  was  picking  daisies  down  by  the  stile 

When   she  "ba-baed"  me  a  greeting. 
The   crooked-horned   ram   comes   scrambling   next — 

He's  over  the  wall  in  a  hurry. 
He's  very  grumpy.     Perhaps  he's  vexed, 

And  thinks  that  life  is  a  w^orry. 

Oh!  here's  the  fat  old  grandmother  ewe. 

She  marches  fine  as  a  fiddle, 
She  makes  for  the  gap.     She'll  never  get  through — 

I  knew  she'd  stick  in  the  middle.     (Laughs) 
Two   thin   little   sheep   come   over  a-flying. 

They're  a  very  nimble  pair. 
They  can  clear  the  wall  without  half  trying, 

And  land  mos'  anywhere. 

Here's    some    of    their    sisters,    and    some    of    their 
brothers; 

And  maybe  the  rest  are  cousins. 
I'm  tired  of  counting.     There's  so  many  others — 

A  hundred,   I   think,  or  dozens. 
Oh!   dear.     They   are   leaving  one   weeny   lamb. 

It  hasn't  the  strength  to  clear  it. 
It's  crying  "Come  help  me.     How  weak  I   am!" 

Is  nobody  going  to  hear  it? 

127 


The  poor  little  fellow!     He  bleats  and  bleats. 

I    can't   bear   to  watch   him   trying 
To  climb.     I'll   hide  underneath  the   sheets, 

An'    then    I    won't    hear    him    crying.      (Begins 
calling) 
"Oh,  Mother!     Come!     Don't  you  hear  me  call? 

Please   lift  the   little   one   over. 
He's   feeble   and   weak,   I   know   he'll   fall. 

Do  put  him  safe  in  the  clover." 

Mother:    (running   in)      "There,    there,    my   darling. 

Don't  cry,  my  pet. 
They  are  not  real  sheep,  my  blessing. 

You  were  only  playing.     (His  cheeks  are  wet. 
This    is    really    too    distressing.) 

Come  nestle  all  comfy  in  Mother's  lap, 
We'll  play  it's  Cuddle-and-kiss  time; 

Your're   Mummy's  darling,  her  own   little  chap, 
And  she'll  rock  you  to  sleep,  JUST  THIS  TIME." 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


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Ml!  it  I 


